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■ 




THE 


1 
i 


WORKS 


I 


OF 




L R D B Y R N, 




INCLUDING 




C[}E lu-pprfHSFii ^oms. 




ALSO 




A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 




BY J. W. LAKE. 




COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 




PHILADELPHIA: 




J. B. LIPPINCOT T & CO. 




1859. 



CONTENTS. 



].lFDOFLOIlD h^ROiS'. 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

On leaving' Newstcad Abbey 

Epitaph on a Friend 

A Fr.HiiiDeEt 

The Tear - - - - 

An Occasional ProloKHO 

On the Death ofRIr. Fox - 

StaDzis to a Lady 

To I\[*** - - . . 

To Woman - 

To M. S. G. - - - 



bong -..-- ... 

To Mary .-.-.. 

Damaeias - • - 

T,)JMarion ------ 

Oscar oi' Alva ----- . - 

To fi.e Dukeof D. - - - - - - 

Translations and Imitatinns. 

Adri-ui's Address to his Soul, when dying 

Translation ---------- 

Translation from Catullus - - - ",."," 
Trarijlaiion of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibulius 

Translation tioin Catullus- 

Imitated from Calulhis - - - . . . 

Traiijiation front Anacreon - - - - - 

Ode III - - - - 

Fraa.Tient from the Prometheus Vinctus - 
The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus - - 
i'ranslation from the Medea of Euripides 
Fiiffitinc Pieces. 

Thoughts sugsested by a College Examination 
To the Earl of *** ■ - - "- - - - 

Granta, a Medley 

Lacliiti y Gair - ' - 

To Romance 

I'^loiry on N^ewstead Abbey 

To E. N. L. Esq. - 

To - 

Stanzas- ---------- 

Lines yvritten beneath an Elm in the (Jliurchyard of Har- 
row on the HilU -------- 

The death of Calmar and Orla 

CRITIQUE extracted from the Edinburgh Review, No. 
2-J, for January. 1808 - - - - - 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 

I'oslscript --------- 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE - - - 

Notes 

THE GIAOUR 

Notes - - 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 

Notes - . - - 

THE CORSAIR - - ----- 

Notes ----- 

LARA 

Note 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA ----- 

Notes ---------- 

rilE SIEGE OF CORINTH - - - - 

Notes ---------- 

PARISINA - - - - - - . . 

Notes - - - -' 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON - - - - 

Notes ---.- 

BEPPO 

Notes .--.-.-- 

MAZEPPA - - - 

MANFRED - - - 

Notes -- -...-.- 
*IARINO FALIERO 

Notes .-""" 

Appendix --------- 

SARDANAz'ALUS 

Notes - - . . - 



24 

■ 26 

- 37 

- 3S 

- S 

• 143 

- 146 

- 156 

- 15!) 

■ 175 

- 1 
■188 

- 189 

■ 191 

• 392 

■ 201 

• 202 

■ 207 
■208 

■ 211 
213 
220 

• ib. 
228 
241 
24? 
280 
281 

290 
32G 



THE TWO FOSCARI - - - - . ^7 

Appendi.\ ---.,., . ^54 

^•AIN -Rfi] 

WERNER - - - 384 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED - • - 427 

HEAVEN AND EARTH - - - . - 445 

THE PROPHECY OF DANTE - - 457 

Notes - - 463 

THE ISLAND - - . . - - 464 

Appendix - . 476 

THE AGE OF BRONZE - - 480 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 487 

MORGANTE MAGGIORE 495 

WALTZ 502 

Notes ----- 505 

THE LAMENT OF TASSO 506 

HEBREW MELODIES. 
She walks in beauty -------- 50^ 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept - - - -509 
It" that higli world -----._.jij 

The wild gazelle jl,. 

Oh ! weep for those -------- ib. 

On Jordan's banks - . - - - - ib 

Jeplitlia's daughter ------ .-jj) 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom - - - - 5J0 

My suul is dark - ib. 

I saw thee weep . . . \\y^ 

Thy days are done - - - . , . . jij. 

Song of Saul before his last battle - - - - ib. 

Saul - - - - ib^ 

" All is vanity, saith the preacher" - - - - -511 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay - - - - ib. 

Vision of Belshazzar -------- ib. 

Sill) of the sleepless -------- ib. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'stit to be - - 5li 
Herod's lamriU for Mariamne - ----- ib. 

On the day of the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus - ib. 
Ry the rivors of Babylon we sat down and wept - - ib 
The destruction of Sennacherib ----- ib. 

From JJb - - - - . - . .513 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte ------ 513 

Monody on the death of the Right Hon R. B. Sheridan 514 
The Irish Avatar ------- 515 

The Dream -------..- 5]Q 

Odo (to Venicpj - -- 5]8 

Lines written in an Album ----.- 5]3 
Romance muy doloroso del sitio y toma de Alhama - 520 
A very mournlul Ballad on the siege and conquest of 

Alhama ---------.jb. 

Sonetio di Vittorelli. with translation - - . - 500 
Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf - - ib. 
composed in a thunder-storm near mount Pin- 

dus --- jjj 

To *** : - - 523 

Lines Avritten at Athens - - - - - - -ib- 

written beneath a picture ------ ib 

— — u ritten alter swimming from Sestos to Abydos 524 
Zw?; ^ci? anq aya-& ---.._ \\j 

'TVanslaiion of a Greek war song - . - \\y 

Translation of a Romaic song ------ 525 

On parting -------- -ih. 

ToThyrza - - - - ib. 

Siapzas - - - - 52g 

ToThyrza ib. 

Eoihanasia - - - ib. 

^'"nzMS - - - . 5^.7 

On a cornelinn heart which was broken - - - 5<2g 

To a yMii'hful friend ----- j|^ 

To ****** - - .5'^ 

From the Portuguese ------- jq 

Impromptu, in reply to a friend - - - - ,>j 

Addi-fss, spoken at the opening of Drury-lane T:,3atre b 

To Time ----- ^-^Q 

Translation of a Romaic love song - - jb 

A Simg ------- - - - 'J^\ 

On being ask'd what was the "origin of love" - - jb. 

Remeniher him, etc. - - - - - . - ib. 

Lines inscribed upcm a cup formed from a skull - ib! 

On the death of Sir Peter Parker Bart - - W1 



IV 



CONTEXTS. 



To a Lady weepin? ------- 

From the Turkish 

Sonnet to Genevra - ---_-- 

\n«rripti'>n on the monument of a Newfoundland dog 
Farewvl: .--.-.--- 
BiiKht be the p!acf» of tiiy soul - - - - - 

When we two piirted ------- 

JS.Hiizas for music ------- 



Ftro thee well --------- 

"]•„ *** ----------- 

Ode (from the French) 

From the French --------- 

(.>n the Star nt" the Legion of Honour (from the French) 
Napoleon's Farewell (from the French) - - - - 

S'>nnet - - . 

Written on a blank leaf of " The Pleasures of Memory 

S'anziisto*** 

Darkness ..----.-- 

Churchill's Grave -- 

Prometheus --------- 

Ode 

Windsor Poetics --------- 

A sketch from private life - - . . - - 

Carmina Byronis in C. Elgin ------ 

Lines to Jtr. Moore -------- 

'* On this day 1 complete my thirty-sixtli year" 



532 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

it>. 
533 

ib. 

■ ib. 
ib. 

534 
• ib. 

■ ib. 
.535 
536! 

lb. I 
537 1 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. I 
538 

ib. 
539 



LETTER TO**** ***** 
TURES OX POPE 



OX BOWLES'S 



STRIC- 

- -512 

- - 5.52 

- -553 



A FRAGMENT 

PARLLAMEXTARY SPEECHES - - 

UOX JUAN 561 

Notes '^Qi 

HLNTS FRO^l HORACE 711 

ADDITIONS TO THE HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
On a distant view of the Village and School of Harrow 

nn the Hill 722 

To D. 

T(i Eddlcston --------- 

R''piy to som"? Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq. 

T'd the sishing Sirephoii ------- 

To Miss Pigot - ,- - .- - ,. - - - - 

Lines written in Letters ot an Italian Xun and an 
English Gentleman -------- 

The Cornelian - - - - 

On the Death of a Young Lady - - - - - 

To Emma 

To M. S. G. - - - - - - . . 

To (^iroline - - - - - - - 

To Caroline --- ---_.. 

To Caroline - - 

The First Kiss of Love . - - - - - 

To a beautiful Quaker ------- 

To Lfesbia - - ------ 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady - - - . 

The Last Aiiieu 

Translation from Horace ------ 



Fugitive Pieces 

Answer to Versts sent by a Friend - - - 
On a Chnnge of Masters at a great public School 
Childish Recollections ----- 
A nswer to a Poem written by Montgomery - 

To the Rev. J. T. Becher 

To MissChaworlh 

Remembrance - - 



-728 
729 
ib. 

-733 

- 734 

- «b. 

- ib. 



>mSCELLANEOUS POE.MS. 

The Blues - - 735 

Tiie Third Act of Manfred, in its orifuial shape - - 73P 

To mv dear Mary Anne 741 

To Miss Chaworth - - ib. 

Fragment ---ib. 

The I raycr of Nature ib. 

On a>-,fc/i>8 Ldrrcw -742 



I/Amitie est P Amour sans Ailes 

To my Son 

Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell 
Fracitient ------ 

To M.S. ***--. 

A Love-Song 

S'anzas ------- 

To ***** ------ 



t^ong ----- 

Stanzas to *** on leaving England - - - - 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson ------- 

Lines in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus 

On Moore's la>t Operatic Faice - - - - - 

Epistle to Mr. Hodgson - 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems - . - - - - 

To Lord Thurlow - - 

To Thomas Moore ------- 

Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Moore 

The Devil's Drive - " - , 

Additional Sianzas to the Ode to X'^apoleon Bonapttile 
To Lady Carrdine Lamb ------- 

Stanzas for Music -------- 

Address intended to be recited at the Caledonian Meet- 



mg 



On the Prince Regent's returning the Picture of Sarah, 
Countess of Jersey, to Mrs. Mee - - - - - 

To Beishnzzar 

They say that Hope is Happiness - - - - - 
Lines intended fur the openmg of " The siege of Cormth" 
Extract from an unpublished Poem - - - - - 

To Augusta - - - - 

To Thomas Moore 

Stanzas to the river Po ------ - 

Sonnet to George the Fourth ------ 

Franctsca of Rimini ------- 

Stanzas to her who best can understand them 

To the Countess of Blessington - - 

Stanzas written on the Road between Florence cJid Pisa 

Impromptu ------- -- 

To a Vain Lady --------- 

Farewell to the Muse - - - - - - 

To Anne -------.._. 

To the same ------- -- 

To the Author of a Sonnet - - - . . 

On finding a Fan ------ .- 

To an Oak at Newsfead - - - - - . 

Dedication to Don Juan - - - - . - 

Parenthetical Address by Dr. Plagiary - . - - 
Oh never talk airain to me - - . - . 

Farewell to Malta - 

Endorsement to the Deed of Separation - - - - 

Who kill'd John Keats 

Sons for the Luddites ------- 

The Cham I save --.-.._- 
Epitaph for Joseph Blackett ------ 

So we'll go no more a rovinff ----.. 

Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill - - - 

To *** 

Martial, Lib. I. Epig. I. 

FpiL'ram -----..-.. 

To Dives 

Verses found in a SummerHouse at Hales Owen - 
From the French ------.. 

New Duet --------- 

Answer --------.. 

Epigrams ---------- 

Thf; Conquest 

Versicles -------... 

Epigran.. from the French of Rulhieres - - - - 

To Mr. Murray . . 

Epistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori . - . 
Fpisile to Mr. Murray ------- 

To Mr. Murray 

To Thomas Moore -------- 

Stanzas- -------... 

Epitaph for William Pitt 

On my W'edding-day ------.- 

Epigram -------... 

The Charity Ball - 

Fpisram 



To Mr. JIurray ------- 

Stanzas, to a Hindoo Air - - - . . 
On the birth of John William Rizzo HoppDer 
Stanzas ----.--. 



Kin mtt of aofJr Mvtvon 

BY J. W. LAKE. 



O'er the harp, from earliest years beloved, 
He threw his fingers hurriedly, and tones 
Of melancholy beauty died away 
Upon its strings of sweetness. 



It was reserved for the present age to pro- 
. uce one distinguished example of the Muse 
laving descended upon a bard of a wounded 
spirit, and lent her lyre to tell afflictions of 
no ordinary description; afflictions originating 
probably in that singular combination of feel- 
ing with imagination which has been called 
the poetical temperament, and which has so 
often saddened the days of those on whom it 
has been conferred. If ever a man was enti- 
tled to lay claim to that character in all its 
strength and all its weakness, with its un- 
bounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite 
sensibility of pleasure and of pain, that man 
was Lord Byron. Nor does it require much 
time, or a deep acquaintance with human na- 
ture, to discover why these extraordinary 
powers should in so many cases have con- 
tributed more to the wretchedness than to the 
[lappiness of their possessor. 

The " imagination all compact," which the 
greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as 
the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in 
every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, 
indeed, our expectations, and can often bid 
its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason; 
but the delusive pleasure arising from these 
visions of imagination, resembles that of a 
child whose notice is attracted by a fragment 
of glass to which a sunbeam has given mo- 
mentary splendour. He hastens to the spot 
with breathless impatience, and finds that the 
object of his curiosity and expectation is 
equally vulgar and worthless. Such is the 
man of quick and exalted powers of imagina- 
tion : his fancy over-estimates the object of 
his wishes; and pleasure, fame, distinction, 
are alternately pursued, attained, and despised 
when in his power. Like the enchanted fruit 
in the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his 
admiration lose their attraction and value as 
soon as they are grasped by the adventurer's 
hand ; and all that remains is regret for the 
time lost in the chase, and wonder at the hal- 
lucination under the influence of which it was 
undertaken. The disproportion between hope 
and possession, which is felt by aU men, is thus 
doubled to those whom nature has endowed 
with the power of gilding a distant prospect 
by the rays of imagmation. 

We think that many points of resemblance 
may be traced between Byron and Rousseau. 
Both are distinguished by the most ardent and 
vivid delineation of intense conception, and 
by a deep sensibility of passion rather than of 
affection. Both too, by this double power, 
liave held a dominion over the sympathy of 
A 2 



their readers, far beyond the range of those 
ordinary feelings which are usually excited 
by the mere efforts of genius. The impression 
of this interest still accompanies the perusal 
of their writings; but there is another interest, 
of more lasting and far stronger power, which 
each of them possessed, — which hes in the 
continual embodying of the individual charac- 
ter, it might almost be said of the very person 
of the writer. When we speak or think of 
Rousseau or Byron, we are not conscious of 
speaking or thinking of an author. We have 
a vague but impassioned remembrance of men 
of surpassing genius, eloquence, and power, — 
of prodigious capacity both of misery and 
happiness. We feel as if we had transiently 
met such beings in real life, or had known 
them in the dim and dark communion of a 
dream. Each of their works presents, in suc- 
cession, a fresh idea of themselves ; and, while 
the productions of other great men stand out 
from them, like something they have created, 
theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures' 
busts of their living selves,— clothed, no doubt, 
at different times, in different drapery, and 
prominent from a different back-ground, — but 
uniformly impressed with the same form, and 
mien, and lineaments, and not to be mistaken 
for the representations of any other of the 
children of men. 

But this view of the subject, though univer- 
sally felt to be a true one, requires perhaps a 
little explanation. The personal character of 
which we have spoken, it should be under- 
stood, is not altogether that on which the seal 
of life has been set,— and to which, therefore, 
moral approval or condemnation is necessa- 
rily annexed, as to the language or conduct 
of actual existence. It is the character, so to 
speak, which is prior to conduct, and yet 
open to good and to ill,— the constitution of 
the being in body and in soul. Each of these 
illustrious writers has, in this light, filled his 
works with expressions orhis own character,;, 
— has unveiled to the world the secrets of his 
own being, the mysteries of the framing of 
man. They have gone down into those depths 
which every man may sound for nimself, 
though not for another ; and they have made 
disclosures to the world of what they beheld 
and knew there — disclosures that have com- 
manded and forced a profound and universal 
sympathy, by proving "that all m.ankind, the 
troubled and tlie untroubled, the lofty and the 
low, tlie strongest and the frailest, are linked 
together by the bonds of a common but in 
scru table nature. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



Thus, each of these wa>nvard and richly- 
giftcil spirits made himself the object of pro- 
found interest to the world, and that too dur- 
ing periods of society when ample food was 
everywhere spread abroad for the meditations 
and passions of men. 

Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and 
birth, a close resemblance in their passions 
and their genius may be traced too between 
Byron and Robert Burns. Their careers 
were short and glorious, and they both perish- 
ed in the " rich summer of their life and song," 
and in all the splendour of a reputation more 
likely to increase than diminish. One was a 
peasant, and the other was a peer; but nature 
is a great leveller, and makes amends for the 
injuries of fortune by the richness of her 
be. nefactions : the genius of Burns raised him 
to a level with the nobles of the land: by na- 
ture, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. 
They both rose by the force of their genius, 
rmd both fell by the strength of their passions; 
one wrote from a love, and the other from a 
scorn of mankind ; and they both sung of the 
emotions of their own hearts, with a vehe- 
mence and an originality which few have 
equalled, and none surely have surpassed. 

The versatility of authors who have been 
able to draw and support characters as diiFer- 
ent from each other as from their own, has 
given to their productions the inexpressible 
cliarm of variety, and has often secured them 
from that neglect which in general attends 
what is terhnically called mannerism. But it 
was reserved for Lord Byron (previous to his 
Don Juan) to present the same character on 
the public stage again and again, varied only 
oy the exertions of that powerful genius, 
which, searching the springs of passion and 
of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew 
how to combine their operations, so that the 
interest was eternally varying, and never 
abated, although the most important person 
of the drama retained the same lineaments. 

" But that noble tree will never more bear 
fruit or blossom ! It has been cut down in its 
strength, and the past is all that remains to us 
of Byron. That voice is silent for ever, which, 
bursting so frequently on our ear, was often 
heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes 
with regret, but always with the deepest in- 
terest." — Yet the impression of his works still 
remains vivid and strong. The charm which 
cannot pass away is there, — life breathing in 
dead words — the stern grandeur — the intense 
power and energy — the fresh beauty, the un- 
dimmed lustre — the immortal bloom, and ver- 
dure, and fragrance of life, all those still are 
fhere. But it Avas not in these alone, it was in 
that continual impersonation of himself in his 
writings, by which he was for ever kept 
brightly before the eyes of men. 

It might, at first, seem that his undisguised 
tevelation of feelings and passions, which the 
I'ccoming pride of human nature, jealous of 
its own dignity, would in general desire to 
Jiold in un\iolated silence, "could have pro- 
duced in the public mind only pity, sorrow, 
or repugnance. But in the case of men of 
"cal genius, like Byron it is otherwise: they 



are not felt, while we read, as declaiations 
published to the world, but almost as secrets 
whispered to chosen ears. Who is there that 
feels for a moment, that the voice which 
reaches the inmost recesses of his heart is 
speaking to the careless multitudes around 
him ? Or if we do so remember, the words 
seem to pass by others like air, and to find 
their way to the hearts for whom they were 
intended ; kindred and sympathetic spirits, 
who discern and own that secret language, 
of which the privacy is not violated, though 
spoken in hearing of the uninitiated, because 
it is not understood. A great poet may ad- 
dress the whole world, in the language of 
inteusest passion, concerning objects of Avhich 
rather than speak face to face with any one 
human being on earth, he would perish in his 
misery. For it is in solitude that he utters 
what is to be wafted by all the winds of heaven: 
there are, during his inspiration, present with 
him only the shadows of men. He is not 
daunted, or perplexed, or disturbed, or repel- 
led, by real, living, breathing features. He 
can updraw just as much of the curtain as he 
c] looses, tliat hangs between his own solitude 
and the world of life. He there pours his soul 
out, partly to himself alone, partly to the ideal 
abstractions and impersonated images that 
float around him at his own conjuration; and 
partly to human beings like himself, moving 
in the dark distance of the every-day world. 
He confesses himself, not before men, but 
before the spirit of humanity; and he thus 
fearlessly lays open his heart, assured that 
nature never prompted unto genius that which 
will not triumphantly force its wide way into 
the human heart. 

We have admitted that Byron has depicted 
much of himself, in all his heroes ; but when 
we seem to see the poet shadowed out in all 
those states of disordered being which his 
Childe Harolds, Giaours, Conrads, Laras, and 
Alps exhibit, we are far from believing that 
his own mind has gone through those states 
of disorder, in its own experience of life. W^e 
merely conceive of it, as having felt Avithin 
itself the capacity of such disorders, and there- 
fore exhibiting itself before us in possibility. 
This is not general, — it is rare with great 
poets. Neither Homer, nor Shakspeare^ nor 
Milton, ever so show themselves in the cha- 
racters which they pourtray. Their poetical 
personages have no references to themselves, 
but are distinct, independent creatures of 
their minds, produced in the full freedom of 
intellectual power. In Byron, there does not 
seem this freedom of power — there is little 
appropriation of character to events. Charac- 
ter is first, and all in all ; it is dictated, com- 
pelled by some force in his own mind — ne- 
cessitaiing him,— and the events obey. His 
poems, therefore, excepting Don Juan, are 
not full and complete narrations of some one 
definite story, containing within itself a pic- 
ture of human life. They are merely bold, 
confused, and turbulent exemplifications oi 
certain sweeping energi'^F and irresistible 
passions : they are fragnients of a poet's dark 
dream of life. The verj' perjonages, vividh 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



VI) 



as tliey are pictured, are yet felt to be ficti- 
tious, and derive their chief power over us 
from their supposed mysterious connexion 
with the poet himself, and, it may be added, 
with each other. The la^v of his mind was to 
embody his peculiar feelings in the forms of 
other men. In all his heroes we recognise, 
though with infinite modifications, the same 
great characteristics : a high and audacious 
conception of the power of the mind, — an in- 
tense sensibility of passion, — an almost bound- 
less capacity of tumultuous emotion, — a boast- 
ing admiration of the grandeur of disordered 
power, and, above all, a soul-felt, blood-felt 
delight in beauty — a beauty, which, in his 
wild creation, is often scared away from the 
agitated surface of life by stormier passions, 
but which, like a bird of calm, is for ever re- 
turning, on its soft, silvery wings, ere the 
black swell has finally subsided into sunshine 
and peace. 

These reflections naturally precede the 
sketch we are about to attempt of Lord By- 
ron's literary and private life : indeed, they 
are in a manner forced upon us by liis poetry, 
by the sentiments of weariness of existence 
and enmity with the Avorld ^vhich it so fre- 
quently expresses, and by the singular analo- 
gy which such sentiments hold with the real 
Incidents of his life. 

Lord Byron was descended from an illus- 
trious line of ancestry. From the period of 
the Conquest, his family were distinguished, 
not merely for their extensive manors in Lan- 
cashire and other parts of the kingdom, but 
for their prowess in arms. John de Byron 
attended Edward the First in several warlike 
expeditions. Two of the Byrons fell at the 
battle of Cress}". Another member of the 
family, Sir John de BjTon, rendered good 
service in Bosworth field to the Earl of Rich- 
mond, and contributed by his valour to trans- 
fer the crown from the head of Richard the 
Third to that of Henry the Seventh. This Sir 
John was a man of honour, as Avell as a brave 
warrior. He was very intimate with his neigh- 
bour SirGervase Clifton; and, although By- 
ron fought under Henr>', and Clifton under 
Richard, it did not diminish their friendship, 
but, on the contrary, put it to a severe test. 
Previous to the battle, the prize of which was 
a kingdom, they had mutually promised that 
ivhichever of them was vanquished, the other 
should endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of 
his friend's estate. While Clifton Avas bravely 
fighting at the head of his troop, he was struck 
off his^ horse, which Byron perceiving, he 
quitted the ranks, and ran to the relief of his 
friend, whom he shielded, but who died in his 
arms. Sir John de Byron kept his word : he 
interceded with the king : the estate was pre- 
served to the Clifton family, and is now in the 
possession of a descendant of Sir Gervase. 

In the wars between Charles the First and 
the Parliament, the Byrons adliered to the 
royal cause. Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest 
brother and representative of the family, was 
an eminent loyalist, who, having distinguished 
himself in the wars of the Low Countries, 
ivas appointed governor of Chelsea, in 1642. 



He had two sons, who both died without issue: 
and his younger brother. Sir John, became 
their heir. Tliis person was made a Knigh<. 
of the Bath, at the coronation of Jamc. ;l.c. 
First. He had eleven sons, most of '•'.cm 
distinguished themselves for their loyah / ;.inl 
gallantry on the side of Charles the '- isf 
Seven of these brothers were engaged . Lhn 
battle of Marston-moor, of whom four fell i.. 
defence of the royal cause. Sir John Byron, 
one of the survivors, was appointed to many 
important commands, and on the 26th of Oc- 
tober, 1643, was created Lord Byron, with a 
collateral remainder to his brothers. On the 
decline of the king's affairs, he was appointed 
governor to the Duke of York, and, in this 
office, died witliout issue, in France, in 1652; 
upon which his brother Richard, a celebrated 
cavalier, became the second Lord Byron. He 
was governor of Appleby Castle, and distin- 
guished himself at Newark. He died in 1697, 
aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his 
efdest son William, who married Elizabeth, 
the daughter of John Viscount Chaworth, of 
tlie kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five 
sons, all of whom died young, except William, 
Avhose eldest son, William, was born in 1722, 
and came to the title in 1736. 

William, Lord Byron, passed the earlj' part 
of his hfe in the navy. In 1 763, he was made 
master of the stag-hounds ; and in 1 765, was 
sent to the ToAver, and tried before th.e Hous'P 
of Peers, for killing his relation and neigh- 
bour, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel. — The follow 
ing details of this fatal event are peculiarly 
interesting, from subsequent circumstances 
connected with the subject of our sketch. 

The old Lord Byron belonged to a club, of 
Avhich JMr. Chawortli was also a memiber. It 
met at the Star and Garter tavern. Pall Mall, 
once a month, and was called the Nottingham- 
shire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, tliey 
met at four o'clock to dinner as usual, and 
every thing Avent agreeably on, until about 
seven o'clock, Avhen a dispute arose betvvixt 
Lord Byron and Mr. ChaAvorth, concerning 
the quantitj' of game on their estates. The 
dispute rose to a high pitch, and Mr. Cha- 
Avorth, having paid his share of the bill, retired. 
Lord Byron folloAved him out of the room in 
Avhich they had dined, and, stopping him on 
the landing of the stairs, called to the waiter 
to shoAv them into an empty room. They were 
shown into one, and a single candle being 
placed on the table, — in a few minutes the 
bell was rung, and Mr. Chaworth found mor- 
tally wounded. He said that Lord Byron and 
he entered the room together, Lord Byron 
leading the way; that his lordship, inAvaildng 
forward, said something relative to the forme? 
dispute, on-Avhich he proposed fastemng the 
door; that on turning himself round from this 
act, he perceiA^ed his lordship Av'th his sword 
half drawn, or nearly so : on which, knowmg 
his man, he instantly drew his own, and made 
a thrust at liim, which he fhought had wound- 
ed or killed him ; that then, perceiving hi* 
lordship shorten his SAvord to return the thrus.t.. 
he thought to have parried it Avith his left hand; 
that he felt the sword enter ais body, and fro 



vni 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



Heep through his back; that he struggled, and 
t)eiiig tlie stronger man, disarmed his lordship, 
and expressed a concern, as under the appre- 
nension of having mortally wounded him; 
that Lord Byron replied by saying something 
to the like effect, adding at the same time, 
that he hoped " he would noAV allow him to 
be as brave a man as any in the kingdom." 

For this offence he was unanimously con- 
victed of manslaughter, but, on being brought 
up for judgment, pleaded his privilege as a 
peer, and was, in consequence, eischarged. 
After this affair he was abandoned by his rela- 
tions, and retired to Newstead Abbey; where, 
though he lived in a state of perfect exile from 
persons of his own rank, his unhappy temper 
found abundant exercise in continual war 
with his neighbours and tenants, and sufficient 
punishment in their hatred. One of his amuse- 
ments was feeding crickets, which were his 
only companions. He had made them so tame 
as to crawl over him ; and used to whip them 
with a wisp of straw, if too familiar. In this 
forlorn condition he lingered out a long life 
doing all in his power to ruin tlie paternal 
mansion for that other branch of the family 
to which he was aware it must pass at his 
death, all his own children having descended 
before him to tlie grave. 

John, the next brother to William, and born 
in the year after him, that is in 1723, was of a 
very different disposition, although his career 
in life was almost an unbroken scene of mis- 
fortunes. The hardships he endured while 
accom})anying Commodore Anson in his ex- 
pedition to the South Seas, are well known, 
from his own highly popular and affecting 
narrative. His only son, born in 1751, who 
-eceived an excellent education, and whose 
father procured for him a commission in the 
guards, was so dissipated that he was known 
by the name of" mad Jack Byron." He was 
one of the handsomest men of his time ; but 
his character was so notorious, that his father 
f is obliged to desert him, an^l his company 
was shunned by the better part of society. 
'n his twenty-seventh year, he seduced the 
ivlarchioness of Cannarthen, who had been 
but a few years married to a husband with 
whom she had lived in the most happy state, 
until she formed this unfortunate connexion. 
After one fruitless attempt at reclaiming his 
lady, the Marquis obtained a divorce ; and a 
marriage was brought about between her and 
her seducer; which, after the most brutal 
conduct on his part, and the greatest misery 
and keenest remorse on hers, was dissolved 
in two years, by her sinking to the grave, the 
victim of a broken heart. About three years 
subsequently. Captain Byron sought to recruit 
his fortunes by matrimony, and having made 
a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an 
Aberdeenshire heiress (lineally descended 
from the Eail of Huntley and the Princess 
Jane, dau4,hter of James II. of Scotland,) he 
united himsel^ to her, ran through her proper- 
ty in a few years, and, leaving her and her 
only child, the subject of this memoir, in a 
'est'tute and defenceless state, fled to France 



to avoid his creditors, and died at Valenciea 
nes, in 1791. 

In Captain Medwin's " Conversations o* 
Lord Byron," the following expressions are 
said to have fallen from his lordship, on the 
subject of his unworthy father: — 

" I lost my father when I was only six years 
of age. My mother, when she was in a rage 
with me (and I gave her cause enough,) used 
to say, 'Ah ! you little dog, you are a Byron 
all over; you are as bad as your father!' It 
was very different from Mrs. Malaprop's say- 
ing, ' Ah ! j^ood dear Mr. Malaprop ! I never 
loved him tfll he was dead.' But, in fact, my 
father was, in his youth, any thing but a 
' Coelebs in search of a wife.' He would have 
made a bad hero for Hannah More. He ran 
out three fortunes, and married or ran away 
with three women ; and once wanted a guinea 
that he wrote for : I have the note. He seem- 
ed born for his own ruin, and that of the other 
sex. He began by seducing Lady Carmar- 
then, and spent for her four thousand pounds 
a-year; and, not content with one adventure 
of this kind, afterwards eloped with Miss 
Gordon. This marriage was not destined to 
be a very fortunate one either, and I don't 
wonder at her differing from Sheridan's widow 
in the plav; thev certainly could not have 
claimed ' the flitch.' " 

George Bj'ron Gordon (for so he was called 
on account of the neglect his father's family 
had sliown to his mother} was born at Dover 
on the 22d of January, 1788. On the unnatu- 
ral desertion of his father, the entire care of 
his infant years devolved upon his rnotlier 
who retired to Aberdeen, where she lived in 
almost perfect seclusion, on the ruins of hei 
fortune. Her undivided affection was natu- 
rally concentred in her son, who was her 
darling; and when he only went out for an 
ordinary walk, she would entreat him, with 
the tear glistening in her eye, to take care of 
himself, as " she had nothing on earth but him 
to live for;" a conduct not at all pleasing to 
his adventurous spirit; the more especially 
as some of his companions, who witnessed the 
affectionate scene, would laugh and ridicule 
him about it. This excessive maternal indul- 
gence, and the absence of that salutary disci- 
pline and control so necessary to childhood, 
doubtless contributed to the formation of the 
less pleasing features of Lord Byron's charac- 
ter. It must, however, be remembered, in 
Mrs. Byron's extenuation, not only that the 
circumstances in which she had been left with 
her son were of a very peculiar nature, but 
also that a slight malformation of one of his 
feet, and great weakness of constitution, na 
turally solicited for him in the heart of a mo 
ther a more than ord nary portion of tender 
ness. For these latter reasons, he was not sent 
very early to school, but was allowed to ex 
pand his lungs, and brace his limbs, '.ipon the 
mountains of the neighbourhood. This was 
evidently the most judicious method for im 
parting strength to his bodily frame ; and the 
sequel showed that it was far from the worsi 
for giving tone and \ gour to his mind. The 



Lit 111 OF LORD B^RON. 



IX 



javatre srandeur of nature around him ; the 
feeling tliat he was upon hills where 

" Foreign tyrant never trod, 
But Freedom with her faulchion bright, 
Swept the stranger from her sight ;" 

Qis intercourse with a people whose chief 
amusements consisted in the recital of heroic 
tales of other times, feats of strength, and a 
display of independence, blended with the 
wild supernatural stories peculiar to remote 
and thinly-peopled districts ; — all these were 
calculated to foster that poetical feeling innate 
in his character. 

When George was seven years of age, his 
mother sent him to the grammar-school at 
Aberdeen, where he remained till his removal 
to Harrow, with the exception of some inter- 
vals of absence, which were deemed requisite 
for the establishment of his health. His pro- 
gress beyond that of the general run of his 
class-fellows, was never so remarkable as 
after those occasional intervals, when, in a few 
days, he would master exercises which, in the 
sciiool routine, it had required weeks to ac- 
complish. But when he had overtaken the 
rest of the class, he always relaxed his exer- 
tions, and, contenting himself with being con- 
sidered a tolerable scholar, never made any 
extraordinary eflfort to place himself at the 
head of the highest form. It was out of school 
that he aspired to be the leader of every tiling ; 
in all boyish games and amusements, he would 
be first if possible. For this he was emi- 
nently calculated; quick, enterprising, and 
daring, the energy of his mind enabled him 
to overcome the impediments Avhich nature 
had thrown in his way. Even at that early 
period (from eight to ten years of age), all his 
sports were of a manly character; fishing, 
shooting, swimming, and managing a horse, 
or sleering and trimming the sails of a boat, 
constituted his chief delights, and, to the super- 
ficial observer, seemed his sole occupations. 
He was exceedingly brave, and in the ju- 
venile wars of the school, he generally gained 
the victory; upon one occasion, a boy pur- 
sued by another took refuge in Mrs. Byron's 
house : the latter, who had been much abused 
Sy the former, proceeded to take vengeance 
)ri him even on the landing-place of the draw- 
ing-room stairs, when George interposed in 
his defence, declaring that nobody should be 
ill-used while under his roof and protection. 
Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight ; 
and, although the former was by much the 
stronger of the two, the spirit of young Byron 
was so determined, that after the combat had 
lasted for nearly two hours, it was suspend- 
ed because both the boys were entirely ex- 
hausted. 

A school-fellow of Byron had a very small 
Shetland pony, which his father had bought 
him ; and one day they went to the banks of 
the Don to bathe ; but having only one pony, 
they were obliged to follow the good old prac- 
tice called in Scotland " ride and tie." When 
they came to the bridge over that dark ro- 
mantic stream, Byron bethought him of the 
irophecy which he has quoted in Don Juan : 



" Brig of Balgounie, blach''s your wa' ; 
Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's aefoalf 
Doun ye shall fa'." 

He immediately stopped his cornpanion, who 
was then riding, and asked him if he remem- 
bered the prophecy, saying, that as they were 
both only sons, and as the pony might be_ " a 
mare's ae foal," he would rather ride over first; 
because he had only a mother to lament him, 
should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling 
of the bridge, whereas the other had both a 
father and a mother to grieve for him. 

It is the custom of the grammar-school at 
Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes 
of which it is composed, should be assembled 
for praj^ers in the public school at eight o'clock 
in the morning ; after prayers, a censor calls 
over the names of all, and those who are ab- 
sent are punished. The first time that Lord 
Byron had come to school after his accession 
to' his title, the rector had caused his name to 
be inserted in the censor's book, Georgius 
Dominus de Byron, instead of Georgius Byron 
Gordon, as formerly. The boys, unaccus- 
tomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud 
and involuntary^ shout, which had such an ef- 
fect on his sensitive mind that he burst into 
tears, and would have fled from the school, 
had he not been restrained by the master. 

An answer which Lord Byron made to a 
feDow scholar, who questioned him as to the 
cause of the honorary addition of " Dominus 
de Byron" to his name, served at that time, 
when he was only ten years of age," to point 
out that he would be a man who would think, 
speak, and act for him.self— who, whatever 
might be his sayings or his doings, his vices 
or his virtues, would not condescend to takp 
them at second-hand. This happened on the 
very day after he had been menaced with being 
flogVed' round tlie school for a fault which he 
had^'not committed : and when the question 
was put to him, he replied, " it is not my do- 
ing ; Fortune was to whip me yeste^'day fc 
what another did, and she has this day made 
me a lord for what another has ceased to do. 
I need not thank her in either case, for I have 
asked nothincf at her hands.'* 

On the 17th of ]\Iay, 1798, William, the fi^th 
Lord Byron, departed this life at NewsteaJ. 
As the son of this eccentric nobleman had died 
when George was five years old, and as the 
descent both of the titles and estates was to 
heirs male, the latter, of course, succeeded 
his great-uncle. Upon this change of fortune. 
Lord Byron, now ten years of age, was re- 
moved from the immediate care ofhis mother 
and placed as a ward under the guardianship 
of the Earl of Carlisle, whose father had mar- 
ried Isabella, the sister of the preceding Lord 
Byron. In one or two points of character 
this great-aunt resembled the bard : she also 
wrote beautiful poetry, and after adorning the 
gay and fashionable world for many years, she 
left it without any apparent cause, and witli 
perfect indifference, and in a great measure 
secluded herself from society. 

The young nobleman's guardian decided 
that he should receive the usual education 
given to England's titled sons, and that he 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON, 



should, in llie first instance, be sent to the 
public scho)l at Harro^v. He Avas accord- 
ingly placed there under the tuition of the 
Rev. Dr. Drury, to whom he has testified his 
gratitude in a note to the fourth canto of 
Childe Harold, in a manner which does equal 
honour to the tutor and the pupil. A change 
of scene and of circumstances so unforeseen 
and so rapid, would have been hazardous to 
any boy, but it Avas doubly so to one of Byron's 
ardent mind and previous habits. Taken at 
once from the society of boys in humble life, 
and placed among youths of his own newly- 
acquired rank, with means of gratification 
which to him must have appeared considera- 
ble, it is by no means surprising that he should 
have been betrayed into every sort of extrav- 
agance : none of them appear, however, to 
have been of a very culpable nature. 

" Though he was lame," says one of his 
school- fellows, " he was a great lover of sports, 
and preferred hockey to fiorace, relinquished 
even Helicon for ' duck-puddle,' and gave up 
the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for 
a game of cricket on the common. He was 
not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learn- 
ing, but he was always a clever, plain-spoken, 
and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight by 
the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against 
the disadvantage of his lameness with all the 
spirit of an ancient combatant. ' Don't you 
remember your battle with Pitt?' (a brewer's 
son) said I to him in a letter (for I had wit- 
nessed it), but it seems that he had forgotten 
it. ' You are mistaken, I think,' said he in 
reply ; ' it must have been with Rice-Pud- 
ding ]Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the 
Douglases, or George Raynsford, or Pryce 
(with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses 
Moore (the c/ocZ), or with somebody else, and 
not with Pitt; for with all the above-named, 
and other Avorthies of the fist, had I an inter- 
change of black eyes and bloody noses, at 
various and sundry periods ; however it may 
have happened for all that.' " 

The annexed anecdotes are characteristic : 

The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in 
their wisdom had resolved to set fire to the 
scene of all their ills and troubles — the school 
room : Byron, however, was against the mo 
tion ; and by pointing out to the young rebels 
the names of their fathers on the Avails, he 
prevented the intended conflagration. This 
early specimen of his poAver over the passions 
of his school-felloAvs, his lordship piqued him 
self not a little upon. 

Byron long retained a friendship for several 
of his HarroAv school-fellows; Lord Clare was 
one of his constant correspondents ; Scroope 
Davies Avas also one of his chief companions, 
before his lordship went to the continent. 
This gentleman and Byron once lost all their 
money at " chicken hazard," in one of the 
bells of St. James's, and the next morning 
D-Hvies sent for Byron's pistols to shoot him- 
self Avith ; Byron sent a note refusing to give 
tJicm, on the ground that they would be for- 
feited as a deodand. This comic excuse had 
ihe desired effect. 

l3yron, whilst living at NcATstead during 



the Harrow vacation, saAV and became en 
amoured of Miss ChaAvorth : she is the Mar}, 
of his poetry, and his beautiful " Dream" re 
lates to their loves. Miss ChaAVorth Avas oldei 
than his lordship by a fcAv years, Avas liirhi 
and volatile, and though, no doubt, highly flat 
tered by his attachment, yet she treated oui 
poet less as an ardent lover than as a yonngei 
brother. She was punctual to the assignations 
which took place at a gate dividing the grounds 
of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and ac- 
cepted his letters from the confidants; but hei 
answers, it is said, were Avritten with more ot 
the caution of coquetry than the romance ol 
"love's young dream;" she gave him, hoAv 
ever, her picture, but her hand was reserved 
for another. 

It was somewhat remiarkable that Lord 
Bj^ron and Miss Chaworth should both have 
been under the guardianship of Mr. White. 
This gentleman particularlj' wished that his 
Avards should be married together ; but Miss 
C, as young ladies generally do in such cir- 
cumstances, differed from him, and was re- 
solved to please herself in the choice of a 
Imsband. The celebrated Mr. M., commonly 
knoAvn by the name of Jack M., was at this 
time quite the rage, and Miss C. was not subtle 
enough to conceal the fenclmnt she had for 
this jack-a-c?a?if7y; and though Mr. W. took 
her from one Avatering-place to another, still 
the lover, like an evil spirit, folloAved, and 
at last, being somehoAv m.ore persuasive than 
the " child of song," he carried oft" the lady 
to the great grief of Lord Byron. The mar 
riage, however, Avas not a happy one ; the 
parties soon separated, and Mrs. M. after- 
Avards proposed an intervicAv with her former 
lover, Avhich, by the advice of his sister, he 
declined. 

From Harrow Lord Byron was removed, 
and entered of Trinity College, Cambridge ; 
there, however, he did not mend his manners, 
nor hold the sages of antiquity in higher es- 
teem than when under the comm.and of his 
reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above 
studying the poetics, and held the rules of the 
Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after-life he 
did the " invariable principles" of the ReA^ 
Mr. *BoAvles. Reading after the fashion of the 
studious men of Cam, Avas to him a bore, and 
he held a senior wrangler in the greatest con- 
tempt. Persons of real genius are seldom 
candidates for college prizes, and Byron left 
" the silver cup" for those plodding characters 
who, perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon 
of the unceasing labour necessary to over- 
come the all but invincible natural dullness 
of their intellects. Byron, instead of reading 
Avhat pleased tutors, read Avhat pleased him- 
self, and Avrote what could not fail to displease 
those political weathercocks. He did not ad- 
niire their system of education ; and they, as 
is the case Avith most scholars, could admire 
no other. He took to quizzing them, and no 
one likes to be laughed at; doctors froAvned, 
and felloAA's fumed, and Byron at the age of 
nineteen left the university Avithout a degree. 

Among other means Avhich he adopted tc 
show his contempt for academical honours 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XI 



he kept a voung bear in liis room for some 
time, which he told all his friends he was train- 
in^^ up for a fellowship ; but, however much 
tlie fellows of Trinity may claim acquaintance 
w ith the " ursa major," tliey were by no means 
desirous of associating with his lordship's eleve. 

When about nmeteen years of age, I^ord 
Byro:j bade adieu to the university, and took 
Tip his residence at Newstead Abbey. Here 
his pursuits were principally those of amuse- 
ment. Among others, he was extremely fond 
of the water. In his aquatic exercises he had 
Geldom any other companion than a large 
Newfoundland dog, to try whose sagacity and 
fidelity, he would sometimes fall out of the 
boat, as if by accident, when the dog would 
seize him, and drag him ashore. On losing 
this dog, in the autumn of 1808, he caused a 
monument to be erected, with an inscription 
commemorative of its attachment. (See page 
532 of this edition.) 

The following descriptions of Newstead's 
hallowed pile will be found interesting : 

This abbey was founded in the year 1170, 
by Henry II., as a priory of Black Canons 
and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It con- 
tinued in the family of the Byrons until the 
time of the late lord, who sold it first to Mr. 
Claughton for the sum of 140,000/., and on 
that gentleman's not being able to fulfil the 
agreement, and thus paying 20,000/. of a for- 
feit, it was afterwards sold to another person, 
and most of the money vested in trustees for 
the jointure of the Hon. Mrs. Byron. The 
greater part of the edifice still remains. The 
present possessor, Major Wild man, is, with 
genuine Gothic taste, repairing this beautiful 
specimen of architecture. The late Lord 
Byron repaired a considerable part of it ; 
but, forgetting the roof, he had turned his at- 
tention to the inside, and the consequence 
was, that in a few years, the rain paying a 
visit to the apartments, soon destroyed all 
those elegant devices which his lordship had 
contrived. His lordship's OAvn study was a 
neat little apartment, decorated with some 
good classic busts, a select collection of books, 
an antique cross, a sword in a gilt case, and, 
at the end of the room, two finely polished 
skulls on a pair of light fancy stands. In the 
garden, likewise, was a great number of these 
skiUls, taken from the burial-ground of the 
abbey, and piled up together ; but afterwards 
they were recommitted to the earth. A writer, 
who visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold 
it, says : " In one corner of the servants' hall 
lay a stone coffin, in which were fencing 
gloves and foils, and on the walls of the ample 
but cheerless kitchen was painted in large let- 
ters, ' Waste not — want not.' During the mi- 
nority of Lord Byron, the abbey was in the 

possession of Lord G , his hounds, and 

divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and 
starlings. The internal traces of this Goth 
were swept away ; but Avithout, all appeared 
as rude and unreclaimed as he could have left 
it. With the exception of the dog's tomb, a 
conspicuous and elegant object, I do not re- 
collect the slightest trace of culture or im- 
rrovement. The late lord, a stern and despe- 



rate character, who is never mentioned by the 
neighbouring peasants without a significant 
shake of the head, might have returned and 
recognised every thing about him, except 
perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. There 
still slept that old pond, into which he is said 
to have hurled his lady in one of his fits of 
fury, whence she was rescued by the gardener, 
a courageous blade, who was the lord's mas- 
ter, and chastised him for his barbarity. There 
still, at the end of the garden, in a grove o^ 
oak, two towering satyrs, he with his goat ana 
club, and Mrs. Satyr with her chubby cloven 
footed brat, placed on pedestals at the inter 
sections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, 
struck for a moment with their grim visages 
and silent shaggy forms, the fear into your 
bosom which is felt by the neighbouring pea- 
santry at ' th' oud laird's devils.' I have fre- 
quently asked the country people near New- 
stead, what sort of man his lordship (our Lord 
Byron) was. The impression of his eccentric 
but energetic character was evident in the 
reply, ' He 's the devil of a fellow for comical 
fancies. He flogs th' oud laird to nothing; but 
he 's a hearty good fellow for all that.' " 

Walpole, Avho had visited Newstead, gives, 
in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the fol- 
lowing account of it : 

'" As I returned I saw Newstead and Al- 
thorpe ; I like both. The former is the very 
abbey. The great east window of the church 
remains, and connects with the house; the 
hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister 
untouched, with the ancient cistern of the 
convent, and their arms on it : it has a private 
chapel quite perfect. The park, which is still 
charmmg, has not been so much unprofaned. 
The present lord has lost large sums, and paid 
part in old oaks, five thousand pounds' worth 
of which have been cut near the house. En 
revanche^ he has built two baby forts, to pay 
his country in castles for damage done to the 
navy, and planted a handful of Scotch firs, 
that look like ploughboys dressed in old family 
hveries for a public day. In the hall is a very 
good collection of pictures, all animals. The 
refectory, now the great drawing-room, is full 
of Byroios : the vaulted roof re'maining, but 
the windows have new dresses making for 
them by a Venetian tailor." 

This is a careless but happy description of 
one of the noblest mansions in England, and 
it will now be read with a far deeper interest 
than when it was written. W^alpole saw the 
seat of the Byrons, old, majestic, and venera- 
ble ; but he saw nothing of that magic beauty 
which fame sheds over'the habitations of ge 
nius, and which now mantles every turret of 
Newstead Abbey. He saw it when decay 
was doing its work on the cloister, the refec- 
tory, and the chapel, and all its honours seemec 
mouldering into oblivion. He could not know 
that a voice was soon to go forth from those 
antique cloisters, that should be heard througlt 
all future ages, and cry, ' Sleep no more to all 
the house.' Whatever may be its future fr,te, 
Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a memo- 
rable abode. Time may shed its wild flowers 
on the walls, and let the fox in jpoii the Toart- 



xn 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



j'ard and the chambers ; it may even pass into 
(he hands of unlettered pride, or plebeian 
opulence : but it has been the mansion of a 
mighty poet. Its name is associated with glo- 
ries that cannot perish, and will go down to 
posterity in one of the proudest pages of our 
annals. 

Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest 
years, that nature had added to the advan- 
tages of high descent the richest gifts of genius 
and of fancy. His own tale is partly told in 
two lines of Lara : 

" Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself, that he.i-dge of woe." 

His first literary adventure, and its fate, are 
well remembered. The poems which he pub- 
lished in his minority had, indeed, those faults 
of conception and diction which are insepara- 
ble from juvenile attempts, and in particular 
may rather be considered as imitative of what 
had caught the ear and fancy of the youthful 
author, than as exhibiting originality of con- 
ception and expression. It was like the first 
essay of the singing-bird, catching at and imi- 
tating the notes of its parent, ere habit and 
time have given the fulness of tone, confi- 
dence, and self-possession which render assist- 
ance unnecessary. Yet though there were 
many, and those not the worst judges, who 
discerned in his " Hours of Idleness" a depth 
of thought and felicity of expression which 
promised much at a more mature age, the 
work did not escape the critical lash of the 
" Scotch Reviewers," who could not resist the 
opportunity- of pouncing upon a titled poet, 
of showing off their own wit, and of seeking 
to entertain their readers with a flippant ar- 
ticle, without much respect to the feelings of 
the author, or even to the indications of merit 
which the work displayed. The review was 
read, and excited mirth; the poems were 
neglected, the author was irritated, and took 
his revenge in keen iambics, which, at the 
same time, proved the injustice of the offend- 
ing critic and the ripening talents of the bard. 
Having thus vented his indignation against 
the reviewers and their readers, and put all 
the laughter on his side. Lord Byron went 
abroad, and the controversy was for some 
years forgotten. 

It was at Newstead, just before his coming 
of age, he had planned his future travels, and 
his original intention included a much larger 
portion of the world than that which he after- 
Avards visited. He first thought of Persia, to 
which idea indeed he for a long time adhered. 
He afterwards meant to sail for India, and had 
so far contemplated this project as to write 
for information from the Arabic professor at 
< Cambridge, and to ask his mother to inquire 
of a friend who had lived in India, what things 
would be necessary for his voyage. He formed 
nis plan of travelling upon very different 
grounds from those which he afterwards ad- 
vanced. All men should travel at one time or 
another, he thought, and he had then no con- 
nexions to prevent him; when he returned 
he miglit enter into political life, for which 



travelling would nci incppacitate him, and 
he wished to judge of men by experience. 

At lengih, in July, 1809, in company with 
John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. (with whom his ac- 
quaintance commenced at Cambridge), Lord 
Byron embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and 
thence proceeded, by the southern provinces 
of Spain, to the Mediterranean. The objects 
that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to 
have occupied his mind, to the temporary 
exclusion of his gloomy and misanthropic 
thoughts ; for a letter which he wrote to his 
mother from thence contains no indication of 
them, but, on the contrary, much playful de- 
scription of the scenes through which he had 
passed. At Seville, Lord Byron lodged in the 
house of two single ladies, one of whom, how- 
ever, was about to be married. Though he 
remained there only three days, she paid him 
the most particular attentions, and, at their 
parting, embraced him with great tenderness, 
cutting ofFa lock of liis hair,and presenting him 
with one of her own. With this specimen of 
Spanish female manners, he proceeded to Ca- 
diz, where various incidents occurred to con- 
firm the opinion he had formed it Seville of 
the Andalusian belles, and whicl made him 
leave Cadiz with regret, and determine to re- 
turn to it. Lord Byron wrote to his mother 
from Malta, announcing his safety, and again 
from Previsa, in November. Upon arriving 
at Yanina, Lord Byron found that Ali Pacha 
was with his troops in Illyrium, besieging 
Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vizier, hav- 
ing heard that an English nobleman was in 
his country, had given orders at Yanina to 
supply him with every kind of accommoda- 
tion, free of expense. From Yanina, Lord 
Byron went to Tepaleen. Here he was lodged 
in the palace, and the next day introduced to 
Ali Pacha, who declared that he knew him 
to be a man of rank from the smallness of his 
ears, his curling hair, and his white hands, 
and who sent him a variety of sweetmeats, 
fruits, and other luxuries. In going m a 
Turkish ship of war, provided for him by 
Ali Pacha, from Previsa, intending to sail for 
Patras, Lord Byron v/as very near bein^ lost 
in but a moderate gale of wind, from the igno- 
rance of the Turkish officers and sailors, and 
was driven on the coast of iSuli. An instance 
of disinterested hospitality in the chief of a 
Suliote village occurred to Lord Byron, in 
consequence" of his disasters in tlie Turkish 
galliot. The honest Albanian, after assisting 
him in his distress, supplying his wants, and 
lodging him and his suite, refused to receive 
any remuneration. When Lord Byron pressed 
him to take money, he said : " I wish you to 
love me, not to pay me." At Yanina, on his 
return, he was introduced to Hussien Bey 
and Mahomet Pacha, two young children of 
Ali Pacha. Subsequently, lie visited Smyrna 
whence he went in the Salsette frigate to 
Constantinople. 

On the 3d of May, 1810, while this frigate 
was lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord 
Byron, accompanied by Lieutenant Eken- 
head, swam the Hellespont from the Europeao 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XIJ 



shore to the Asiatic — about two miles wide. 
Tlie tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, 
that it is impossible either to swim or to sail 
to any given point. Lord Byron went from 
the castle to Abydos, and landed on the oppo- 
site shore, full thj ee miles below his meditated 
place of approach. He had a boat in attend- 
ance all the way ; so that no danger could be 
apprehended even if his strength had failed. 
His lordship records, in one of his minor 

Eoems, that he got the ague by the voyage ; 
ut it was well known, that when he landed, 
he was so much exhausted, that he gladly ac- 
cepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman, and 
reposed in his hut for several hours ; he was 
then very ill, and as Lieutenant Ekenhead 
was compelled to go on board his frigate, he 
was left alone. The Turk had no idea of the 
rank or consequence of his inmate, but paid 
him most marked attention. His wife was 
his nurse, and, at the end of five days, he left 
the shore, completely recovered. When he 
was about to embark, the Turk gave him a 
large loaf, a cheese, and a skin filled with 
wine, and then presented him with a few 
paras (about a penny each), prayed Allah to 
bless him, and wished him safe home. His 
lordship made him no return to this, more than 
saying he felt much obliged. But when he 
arrived at Abydos, he sent over his man Ste- 
fano, to the Turk, with an assortment of fish- 
ing-nets, a fowling piece, a brace of pistols, 
and twelve yards of silk to make gowns for 
his wife. The poor Turk was astonished, and 
said, " What a noble return for an act of hu- 
manity!" He then formed the resolution of 
crossing the Hellespont, and, in propria 
persona^ thanking his lordship. His wife ap- 
proved of the plan ; and he had sailed about 
half way across, when a sudden squall upset 
his boat, and the poor Turkish fisherman 
found a watery grave. Lord Byron was 
much distressed when he heard of the catas- 
trophe, and, with all that kindness of heart 
which was natural to him, he sent to the 
widow fifty dollars, and told her he would 
ever be hev friend. This anecdote, so highly 
honourable to his lordship's memory, is very 
little known. Lieutenant Hare, who was on 
the spot at the time, furnished the particulars, 
and added that, in the year 1817, Lord Byron, 
then proceeding to Constantinople, landed at 
the same spot, and made a handsome present 
to the widow and her son, who recollected 
the circumstance, but knew not Lord Byron, 
his dress and appearance having so altered 
him. 

It was not until after Lord Byron arrived 
at Constantinople that he decided not to go 
on to Persia, but to pass the following summer 
in the Morea. At Constantinople, Mr. Hob- 
liouse left him to return to England. On losing 
his companion. Lord Byron went again, and 
alone, over much of the old track which he had 
already visited, and studied the scenery and 
manners, of Greece especially, with the search- 
ing eye of a poet and a painter. His mind 
appeared occasionally to have some tendency 
towards a recovery from the morbid state of 
moral apathy which he had previously evinced, 
B 



and the gratification which he manifested or 
observing the superiority, in every respect, ol 
England to other countries, proved that patri- 
otism was far from being extinct in his bosom. 
The embarrassed state of his affairs at length 
induced him to return home, to endeavour to 
arrange them ; and he arrived in the Volage 
frigate on the 2d of July, 1811, having been 
absent exactly two years. His health had not 
suffered by his travels, although it had been 
interrupted by two sharp fevers ; but he had 
put himself entirely on a vegetable diet, and 
drank no wine. 

Soon after his arrival, he was summoned to 
Newstead, in consequence of the serious ill- 
ness of his mother ; but on reaching the ab- 
bey, found that she had breathed her last. He 
suffered much from this loss, and from the dis- 
appointment of not seeing her before her death; 
and while his feelings on the subject were still 
very acute, he received the intelligence, that 
a friend, whom he highly esteemed, had been 
drowned in the Cam. He had not long before 
heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a" school- 
fellow, to whom he was much attached. These 
three melancholy events, occurring within the 
space of a month, had, no doubt, a poAverful 
effect on Lord Byron's feelings. 

Towards the termination of his " English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers," the noble au- 
thor had declared, that it was his intention to 
break off, from that period, his newly-formed 
connexion with the Muses, and that, should 
he return in safety from the " Minarets" of 
Constantinople, the " Maidens" of Georgia, 
and the " Sublime Snows of Mount Cau- 
casus, nothing on earth should tempt him to 
resume the pen. Such resolutions are seldom 
maintained. In February, 1812, the first two 
cantos of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" (with 
the manuscript of which he had presented his 
friend Mr. Dallas,) made their appearance, 
producing an effect upon the public, equal to 
that of any work which has been published 
within this or the last century. 

This poem is, perhaps, the most original in 
the English language, both in conception and 
execution. It is no more like Beattie's Min 
strel than Paradise Lost — though the former 
production was in the noble author's mind 
when first thinking of Childe Harold. A great 
poet, who gives himself up free and uncon- 
fined to the impulses of his genius, as Byron 
did in the better part of this singular creation, 
shows to us a spirit as if sent out from the 
hands of nature, to range over the earth and 
the societies of men. liven Shakspeare him- 
self submits to the shackles of history and 
society. But here Byron has traversed the 
whole earth, borne along by the whirlwind of 
his own spirit. Wherever a forest frowned, 
or a temple glittered — there he was privi- 
leged to bend his flight. He suddenly starts 
up from his solitary dream, by the secret foun- 
tain of the desert, and descends at once into 
the tumult of peopled or the silence of de- 
serted cities. Whatever actually lived — had 
perished heretofore — or that had within it a 
power to kindle passion, became the material 
of his all-embr9cing song. There are no imiii«i>«- 



\\v 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON 



of time or place to fetter him — and we fly 
with him from hill-top to hill-top, and from 
tower to tower, over all the solitude of nature, 
and all the magnificence of art. When the 
past pageants of history seemed too dim and 
faded, he would turn to the splendid specta- 
cles that have dignified our own days, and the 
images of kings "and conquerors of old gave 
place to those that were yet living in sove- 
reignty and exile. Indeed, much of the power 
which Byron possessed was derived from this 
source. He lived in a sort of sympathy with 
the public mind — sometimes wholly distinct 
from it — sometimes acting in opposition to it 
— sometimes blending with it, — but, at all 
times, in all his thoughts and actions, bearing 
a reference to the public mind. His spirit 
needed not to go back into the past, — though 
it often did so, — to bring the objects of its love 
back to earth in more beautiful life. The ex- 
istence he painted was — the present. The 
objects he presented were marked out to him 
by men's actual regards. It was his to speak 
of all those great political events which were 
objects of such passionate and universal sym- 
pathy. But chiefly he spoke our own feelings, 
exalted in thought, language, and passion. 
His travels were not, at first, the self-impelled 
act of a mind severing itself in lonely roaming 
from all participation in the society to which 
it belonged, but rather obeying the general 
notion of the mind of that society. 

The indications of a bold, powerful, and 
original mind, which glanced through every 
line of Childe Harold, electrified the mass of 
readers, and placed at once upon Lord By- 
ron's head the garland for which other men 
of genius have toiled long, and which they 
have gained late. He was placed pre-eminent 
among the literary men of his country, by 
general acclamation. Those who had so rigor- 
ously censured his juvenile essays, and perhaps 
" dreaded such another field," were the first 
to pay warm homage to his matured efibrts : 
wliile others, who saw in the sentiments of 
Childe Harold much to regret and to censure, 
did not withhold their tribute of applause to 
the depth of thought, the power and force of 
expression, and the energy of sentiment, 
which animated the " Pilgrimage." Thus, as 
all admired the poem, all were prepared to 
greet the author with that fame which is the 
poet's best reward. It was amidst such feel- 
ings of admiration that Lord Byron fully en- 
tered on that public stasre, Avhere, to the close 
of his life, he made so distinguished a figure. 

Every thing in his manner, person, and 
conversation, tended to maintain the charm 
which his i^enius had flung around him ; and 
those admitted to his conversation, far from 
finding that the inspired poet sunk into ordi- 
nary mortality, felt themselves attached to him 
not only by many noble qualities, but by the 
.merest of a mysterious, undefined, and almost 
')ainful curiosity 

It IS well known how wide the doors of so- 
ciety are opened in London to literary merit, 
even to a degree far inferior to Lord Byron's, 
and that it is only necessary to be honourably 
distmguished by the public voice, to move as a 



denizen in the first circles. This passport was 
not necessary to Lord Byron, who possessea 
the hereditary claims of birth and rank. But 
the interest which his genius attached to his 
presence, and to his conversation, was of v 
nature far beyond what these hereditary 
claims could of themselves have conferred, 
and his reception was enthusiastic beyond 
any thing imaginable. Lord Byron was not 
one of those literary men of whom it may be 
truly said, minuit prcesentiafamam. A coun- 
tenance, exquisitely modeled to the expres- 
sion of feeling and passion, and exhibiting the 
remarkable contrast of very dark hair and 
eyebrows, with light and expressive eyes, 
presented to the physiognomist the most in- 
teresting subject for the exercise of his art. 
The predominating expression was that of 
deep and habitual thought, which gave way to 
the most rapid play of features when he en- 
gaged in interesting discussion ; so that a 
brother poet compared them to the sculpture 
of a beautiful alabaster vase, only seen to per 
fection when lighted up from within. The 
flashes of mirth, gaiety, indignation, or sa- 
tirical dislike, which frequently animated Lord 
Byron's countenance, might, during an even- 
ing's conversation, be mistaken by a stranger 
for its habitual expression, so easily and so 
happily was it formed for them all ; but those 
who had an opportunity of studying his fea- 
tures for a length of time, and upon various 
occasions, both of rest and emotion, knew 
that their pro{)er language was that of melan- 
choly. Sometimes shades of this gloom inter- 
rupted even his gayest and most happy m.o- 
ments ; and the following verses are said to 
have dropped from his pen to excuse a tran- 
sient expression of melancholy which over 
clouded the general gaiety. 

" When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 

Her dusk}' shadow mounts too high, 
And o'er the changing aspect flits, 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye — 
Heed not the gloom Jiat soon shall sink, 

My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 
Back to nij' breast the captives shrink, 

And bleed within their silent cell." 

It was impossible to notice a dejection be- 
longing neither to the rank, the age, noi the 
success of this young nobleman, witliout 
feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain 
%vhether it had a deeper cause than habit or 
constitutional temperament. It was obviously 
of a degree incalculably more serious than that 
alluded^ to by Prince Arthur — 

I remember when I was in France, 

Voung gentlemen would be as sad as night. 
Only for wantonness 

But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord 
Byron's air of mingling in amusements and 
sports as if he contemned them, and fph that 
liis sphere was far above the fashionable £nd 
frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave 
a strong eflTect of colouring to a character 
^yhose tints were otherwise decidedly roman- 
tic. ?s oble and far descended, the pilgrim of 
distant and savage countries, eminent <iS a 
poet among the first whom Britain has pro 



LIFE OF LORD BYROX. 



yv 



duceJ, and having besides cast around him a' 
mysterious charm arising from the sombre 
tone of his poetry, and the occasional melan- 
choly of his deportment, Lord Byron occu- i 
pied'the eyes and interested the feelings of all. j 
The enthusiastic looked on him to admire, j 
the serious with a wish to admonish, and the ■ 
f.oft with a desire to console. Even literary | 
envy, a base sensation, from which, perhaps,; 
this age is more free than any other, forgave 
the man whose splendour dimmed tlie fame of 
his competitors. The generosit}' of Lord By- 
ron's disposition, his readiness to assist merit 
in distress, and to bring it forward where un- 
known, deserved and obtained general re- 
gard; while his poetical eifusions, poured forth 
with equal force and fertility, showed at once 
a daring confidence in his own powers, and a 
determination to maintain, by continued ef- 
fort, tlie high place he had attained in British 
literature. 

At one of the fashionable parties where the 
noble bard was present, His Majesty, then 
Prince Regent, entered the room : Lord By- 
ron was at^some distance at the time, but, on 
learning who he Avas, His Royal Highness 
sent a gentleman to him to desire that he 
would be presented. Of course the presenta- 
tion took place ; the Regent expressed his 
admiration of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," 
and entered into a conversation wliich so fas- 
cinated the poet, that had it not been for an 
accident which deferred a levee intended to 
have been held the next day, he would have 
gone to court. Soon after, however, an un- 
fortunate influence counteracted the eiFect of 
royal praise, and Lord Byron permitted him- 
self to write and speak disrespectfully of the 
Prince. 

The whole of Byron's political career may 
be summed up in the folloAving anecdotes : 

The Earl of Carlisle having declined to in- 
troduce Lord Byron to the House of Peers, 
he resolved to introduce himself, and accord- 
ingly went there a little before the usual hour, 
when he knew few of the lords would be 
present. On entering, he appeared rather 
abashed, and looked very pale, but, passing 
the woolsack, where the Chancellor (Lord 
Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordinar}' 
routine of the house, he went directly to the 
able, where the oaths were administered to 
him in the usual manner. The Lord Chan- 
cellor then approached, and offered his hand 
in the most open familiar manner, congratu- 
latmg him on his taking possession of his seat. 
Lord Byron only placed the tips of his fingers 
m the Chancellor's hand; the latter returned 
to his seat, and Byron, after lounging a few 
minutes on one of the opposition benches, re- 
tired. To his friend, Mr. Dallas, who followed 
him out. he gave as a reason for not entering 
into the spirit of the Chancellor. " that it 
might have been supposed he would join the 
court part\'. whereas he intended to have no- 
thing at all to do with pohtics." 

He only addressed the house three times : 
the first of his speeches was on the Frame- 
work Bill ; the second in favour of the Cath- 



olic claims, which gave good hopes of his b<^ 
coming an orator ; and the other related to a 
petition from ^lajor Cartwright. Byron him- 
seh' says, the Lords told him " his manner 
was not dignified enough for them, and would 
better suitl:he lower house ;" others say, they 
gathered round him while speaking, listening 
with the greatest attention — a sign at any rate 
that he was interesting. _ He always voted 
with the opposition, but evinced no likelihood 
of becoming the bUnd partisan of either side. 

The following is a pleasing instance of tlie 
generosity, the delicacy, and the unwounding 
benevolence of Byron's nature : 

A young lady of considerable talents, bitt 
who had never been able to succeed in turn- 
ing them to any profitable account, was re- 
duced to great hardships through the misfor- 
tunes of her family. The only persons from 
whom she could have hoped for rehef were 
abroad, and so urged on, more by the suffer- 
ings of those she held dear than by her own, 
she summoned up resolution to wait on Lord 
Byron at his apartments in the Albany, and 
ask his subscription to a volume of poems : 
she had no previous knowledge of him except 
from his works, but from the boldness and 
feehng expressed in them, she concluded that 
he must be a man of kind heart and amiable 
disposition. Experience did not disappoint 
her, and though she entered the apartment 
with faltering^steps and a palpitating heart, 
she soon fotmd courage to state her request, 
which she did in the most simple and delicate 
manner : he heard it with the most marked 
attention and the keenest sympathy; and 
when she had ceased speaking, he, as if to 
avert her thoughts from a subject which could 
not be but painful to her, began to con-verse 
in words so fascinating, and tones so gentle, 
that she hardly perceived he had been writ- 
ing, until he put a folded slip of paper into her 
hand, saying it was his subscription, and that 
he most heal'tily wished her success. '' But," 
added he, " we are both young, and the world 
is very censorious, and so if I were to take 
any active part in procuring subscribers to 
your poems. I fear it would do you harm rather 
than good." The young lady, overpowered 
by the prudence and delicacy of his conduct, 
took her leave, and upon opening in the street 
the paper, which in her agitation she had not 
previously looked at, she found it was a draft 
upon his banker for fifty pounds I 

The enmity that Byron entertained towards 
the Earl of Carhsle. -oas owing to two causes : 
the Earl had spoken lather^irreverently o^ 
the " Hours of Idleness," when Byron ex- 
pected, as a relation, that he would have 
countenanced it. He had moreover refused 
to introduce his kinsman to the Hou^e of 
Lords, even, it is said, somewhat doubting his 
right to a seat in that honourable house. 

The Earl of Carlisle was a great admin-r 
of the classic dram.a, and once published a 
sixpenny pamphlet, in which he strenuously 
argued in behalf of the propriet\' and neces- 
sity' of small theatres : on the same day that 
this weighty publication appeared he sut> 



XVI 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



scribed a thousand pounds for some public 
ymrpose. On this occasion, Byron composed 
the following epigram : 

*' Carlisle subscribes a thousand pound 

Out of his rich domains ; 

And for a sixpence circles round 

The produce of his brains : 

'T is thus the difference you may hit 

Betneen his fortune and his wit." 

Byron retained his antipathy to this relative 
to the last. On reading some lines in the 
newspapers addressed to Lady Holland by 
the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject 
the snufF-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, 
beginning : 

" Lady, reject the gift," etc. 
he immediately wrote the following parody : 
" Lady, accept the gift a hero wore, 

In spite of all this elegiac stuff: 
Let not seven stanzas written by a bore 
Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff." 

Sir Lumley Skeffington had written a tra- 
gedy, called', if we remember right, " The 
Mysterious Bride," which was fairly damned 
on the first night: a masquerade took place 
soon after this fatal catastrophe, to which went 
John Cam Hobhouse, as a Spanish nun who 
had been ravished by the French army, and 
was under the protection of his lordship. 
Skeffington, compassionating the unfortunate 
young woman, asked, m a very sentimental 
manner, of Byron, "who is she V' " The Mys- 
terious Bride," replied his lordship. 

On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr. 
Dallas called upon him, and, after the usual 
salutations had passed, inquired if he was pre- 
pared with any other work to support the 
fame wliich he had already acquired. Byron 
then delivered for his examination a poem, 
entitled " Hints from Horace," being a para- 
phrase of the art of poetry. Mr. Dallas prom- 
ised to superintend the publication of this 
piece as he had done that of the satire, and, 
accordingly, it was carried to Cawthorn the 
bookseller, and matters arranged; but Mr. 
Dallas, not thinking the poem likely to in- 
crease his lordship's reputation, allowed it to 
linger in the press. It began thus : 
*' Who would not laugh if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvas with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Nature with a blush 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ; 
Or Low D'*'** (as once the world has seen) 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen^ 
Nofall that forced politeness which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's drecuns, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete. 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet." 

Mr. Dallas expressed his sorrow that his 
lordship had written nothing else. Byron then 
told him that he had occasionally composed 
some verses in Spenser's measure, relative to 
the countries lie had visited. " They are not 
worth troubling j'ou with, ' said his lordship, 

but you shall have them all with vou:" he 



then took " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" from 
a trunk, and delivered it to him. Mr. Dallas, 
having read the poem, was in raptures with 
it ; he instantly resolved to do his utmost in 
suppressing the " Hints from Horace," and 
to bring out Childe Harold. He urged Byron 
to publish this last poem ; but he was unwill- 
ing, and preferred to have the " Hints" pub- 
lished. He would not be convinced of the 
great merit of the " Childe," and as some per- 
son had seen it before Mr. Dallas, and ex- 
pressed disapprobation, Byron was by no 
means sure of its kind reception by the world. 
In a short time afterwards, however, he agreed 
to its publication, and requested Mr. Dallas 
not to deal with Cawthorn, but ofter it to Mil- 
ler of Albemarle street : he wished a fashion- 
able publisher ; but Miller declined it, chiefly 
on account of the strictures it contained on 
Lord Elgin, whose publisher he was. Long- 
man had refused to publish the " Satire," and 
Byron would not suffer any of his works to 
come from that house : the work was there- 
fore carried to Mr. Murray, who then kept a 
shop opposite St. Dunstan's church in Fleet 
street. Mr. Murray had expressed a desire 
to publish for liOrd Byron, and regretted that 
Mr. Dallas had not taken the " English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers" to him; but this was 
after its success. 

Byron fell into company with Hogg, the 
Ettrick Shepherd, at the Lakes. The Shep- 
herd was standing at the inn-door of Amble- 
side, when forth came a strapping young man 
from the house, and off with his hat, and out 
with his hand. Hogg did not know him, and, 
appearing at a dead halt, the other relieved 
him by saying, " Mr. Hogg, I hope you Vvill 
excuse me ; my name is Byron, and I cannot 
help thinking that we ought to hold ourselves 
acquainted." The poets accordingly shook 
hands immediately, and, while they continued 
at the Lakes, were hand and glove, drank 
furiously together, and laughed at their brother 
bards. On Byron's leaving the Lakes, he sent 
Hogg a letter quizzing the Lakists, which the 
Shepherd was so mischievous as to show to 
them. 

When residing at Mitylene in the yeai 
1812, he portioned eight young girls very libe- 
rally, and even danced with them at the mar- 
riage feast ; he gave a cow to one man, horses 
to another, and cotton and silk to several girls 
who lived by weaving these materials : he also 
bought a new boat for a fisherman who had 
lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek 
testaments to the poor children. 

While at Metaxata, in 1823, an embank- 
ment, at which several persons had been en- 
gaged digging, fell in, and buried some of 
them alive : he was at dinner when he heard 
of the accident, and, starting up from the ta- 
ble, ran to the spot, accompanied by his phy- 
sician, who took a supply of medicines with 
him. The labourers who were employed to 
extricate their companions, soon became 
alarmed for themselves, and refused to go on, 
saying, they believed they had dug out all the 
bodies which had been covered by the ruins. 
Ijord Byron endeavoured to induce them to 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XVII 



continue their exertions, but finding menaces 
in vain, he seized a spade and began to dig 
most zealously ; at length the peasantry joined 
lim, and they succeeded in saving two more 
persons from certain death. 

It is stated in the " Conversations," that 
Byron was engaged in several duels, — that in 
one instance he was himself principal in an 
" affair of honour" with Hobhouse, — and would 
have been so in another with Moore, if the 
Bard of Erin's challenge had been properly 
forAvarded to him. 

On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron 
married, at Seaham, in the county of Durham, 
Anne Isabella, only daughter of Sir Ralph 
Millbank (since Noel), Bart. To this lady he 
had m^ade a proposal twelve months before, 
but was rejected : well would it have been for 
tlieir mutual happiness had that rejection been 
repeated. After their marriage. Lord and 
Lady Byron took a house in London ; gave 
splendid dinner-parties; kept separate car- 
ria zes ; and, in short, launched into every sort 
of fashionable extravagance. This could not 
last long ; the portion which his lordship had 
received with Miss Millbank (ten thousand 
pounds] soon melted away _; and, at length, an 
execution was actually levied on the furniture 
of liis residence. It was then agreed that 
Lady Byron, who, on the 10th of December, 
1815, had presented her lord with a daughter, 
should pay a visit to her father till the storm 
was blown over, and some arrangements had 
been made with their creditors. From that 
visit she never returned, and a separation en- 
sued, for which various reasons have been 
assigned; the real cause or causes, however, 
of that regretted event, are up to this moment 
involved in mystery, though, as might be ex- 
pected, a wonderful sensation was excited at 
the time, and every description of contra- 
dictory rumour was in active circulation. 

Byron was first introduced to Miss Mill- 
bank at Lady 's. In going up stairs he 

stumbled, and remarked to Moore, who ac- 
companied him, that it was a bad omen. On 
entering the room, he perceived a lady more 
simply dressed than the rest sitting on a sofa. 
Fle asked IMoore if she was a humble com- 
panion to any of the ladies. The latter replied, 
' She is a great heiress ; you 'd better marry 
her, and repair the old place Newstead." 

The following anecdotes on the subject of 
this unfortunate marriage, are given from 
Lord Byron's Conversations, in his own words: 

" There was sometliing piquant, and what 
we term pretty, in Miss Millbank ; her fea- 
lures were small and feminine, though not 
regular ; she had the fairest skin imaginable ; 
her figure was perfect for her height, and there 
was a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, 
which was very characteristic, and formed a 
happy contrast to the cold artificial formality 
and studied stiffness, which is called fashion : 
fine interested me exceedingly. It is unne- 
cessary to detail the progress of our acquaint- 
ance : I became daily more attached to her, 
and it ended in my making her a proposal that 
was rejected; her refusal was couched in 
lerms that could not offend me. T was besides 
B 2 3 



persuaded that in declining my offer, she was 
governed by the influence of her mother ; and 
was the more confirmed in this opinion by her 
reviving our correspondence herself, twelve 
months after. The tenor of he." letter was, 
that although she could not love me, she de- 
sired my friendship. Friendship is a dangerous 
word for young ladies; it is love full-fledged, 
and waiting for a fine day to fly. 

" I was not so young when my father died, 
but that I perfectly remember him, and had 
very early a horror of matrimony from the 
sight of domestic broils: this feeling came 
over me very strongly at my wedding. Some- 
thing whispered me that I was sealing my own 
death-warrant. I am a great believer in pre- 
sentiments ; Socrates' demon was not a fic- 
tion ; Monk Lewis had his monitor ; and Na- 
poleon many warnings. At the last moment, 
I would have retreated if I could have done 
so ; I called to mind a friend of mine, who had 
married a young, beautiful, and rich girl, and 
yet was miserable ; he had strongly urged me 
against putting my neck in the same yoke : 
and, to show you how firmly I was resolved to 
attend to his advice, I betted Hay fifty guineas 
to one that I should always remain single. Six 
years afterwards, I sent him the money. The 
day before I proposed to Lady Byron. I had 
no idea of doing so. 

" It had been predicted by Mrs. Williams, 
that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age 
for me ; the fortune-telling witch was right, — 
it was destined to prove so. I shaU never for- 
get the 2d of January ! Lady Byron, (Byrn, 
he pronounced it,) was the only unconcerned 
person present ; Lady Noel, her mother, cried ; 
I trembled like a leaf, made the wrong re- 
sponses, and, after the ceremony, called her 
Miss Millbank. _ 

" There is a singular history attached to the 
ring ; the very day the match was concluded, 
a ring of my mother's that had been lost, was 
dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought 
it was sent on purpose for the wedding ; but 
my mother's marriage had not been a" fortu- 
nate one, and this ring was doomed to be the 
seal of an unhappier union still. 

" After the ordeal was over, we set off for a 
country-seat of Sir Ralph's, and I was sur- 
prised at the arrangements for the journey, 
and somewhat out of humour to find a lady's 
maid stuck between me and my bride. It was 
rather too early to assume the husband, so I 
was forced to submit ; but it was not with a 
very good grace. 

" I have been accused of saying, on getting 
into the carnage, that I had married Lady 
Byron out of spite, and because she had re- 
fused me twice. Though I was for a moment 
vexed at her prudery, or whatever it may be 
called, if 1 had made so uncavalier, not to say 
brutal, a speech, I am convinced Lady Byron 
would instantly have left the carriage to me 
and the maid, (I mean the lady's); she had 
spirit enough to have done so, and would prop- 
erly have resented the affront. 

" Our honey-moon was not all sunshine ; 
it had its clouds ; and Hobhouse has some let- 
ters which would serve to explain thr rise ».nJ 



XVlll 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



fall in the barometer ; but it was never down 
at zero. 

" A curious thing happened to me shortly 
after the honey-moon, which was very awk- 
ward at the time, but has since amused me 
much. It so happened that three married 
women were on a wedding visit to my wife, 
(and in the same room at the same time), 
whom I had known to be all birds of the same 
nest. Fancy the scene of confusion that en- 
sued. 

The world says I married Miss MiUbank 
for her fortune, because she was a great heir- 
ess. All I have ever received, or am likely 
to receive, (and that has been twice paid back 
too), was 10,000/. My own income at this 
period was small, and somewhat bespoke. 
Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and 
brought me in a bare 1500/. a-year ; the Lan- 
cashire property was hampered with a law- 
suit, which has cost me 14,000/. and is not yet 
finished. 

" I heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlment 
had been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's 
mind against me ; that she had employed her- 
self and others in watchmg me in London, 
and had reported having traced me into a 
house in Portland-Place. There was one act 
unworthy of any one but such a confidante ; 
I allude to the breaking open nr/ writing- 
desk : a book was found in it that did not do 
much credit to my taste in literature, and some 
letters from a married woman, with whom I 
had been intimate before my marriage. The 
use that was made of the latter was most un- 
lustifiable, whatever may be thought of the 
breach of confidence that led to their discov- 
ery. Lady Byron sent them to the husband 
of the lady, who had the good sense to take 
no notice of their contents. The gravest ac- 
cusation that has been made against me, is 
that of having intrigued with Mrs. Mardyn in 
my own house, introduced her to my own ta- 
ble, etc. ; there never was a more unfounded 
calumny. Being on the Committee of Drury- 
Lane Theatre, I have no doubt that several 
actresses called on me ; but as to Mrs. Mar- 
dyn, who was a beautiful woman, and might 
have been a dangerous visitress, I was scarcely 
pxquainted (to speak) with her. I might even 

make a more serious charge against than 

employing spies to watch suspected amours. 
I had been shut up in a dark street in Lon- 
don, writmg ' The Siege of Corinth,' and had 
refused myself to every one till it was finished. 
I was surprised one day by a doctor and a 
hiwyer almost forcing themselves at the same 
time into my room ; 1 did not know till after- 
wards the real object of their visit. I thought 
t>>eir questions singular, frivolous, and some- 
what importunate^ if not inapertinent ; but 
what should I have thought if I had known 
that they were sent to provide proofs of my 
msanity ? I have no doubt that my answers to 
these emissaries' interrogations were not very 
rational or consistent, for my imagination was 
heated by other things ; but Dr. Baillie could 
not conscientiously make me out a certificate 
for Bedlam, and perhaps the lawyer gave a 
more favourable report to his employers. The 



doctor said afterwards he had been told that 
I always looked down when Lady Byron bent 
her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptoms 
equally infallible, particularly those that mark 
ed the late king's case so strongly.^ I do not 
however, tax Lady Byron Avith^ this transac- 
tion : probably she was not privy to it ; she 
was the tool of others. Her mother always 
detested me; she had not even the decency to 
conceal it in her own house. Dining one day 
at Sir Ralph's (who was a good sort of man, 
and of whom you may form some idea, when 
I tell you that a leg of mutton was ahvays 
served at his table, that he might cut the same 
joke upon it) I broke a tooth, and was in great 
pain, which I could not avoid showing. ' It 
will do you good,' said Lady Noel ; ' I am glad 
of it !' i gave her a look ! 

" Lady Byron had good ideas, but could 
never express them ; wrote poetry too, but it 
was only good by accident; her letters were 
always enigmatical, often unintelligible. She 
was easily^made the dupe of the designing, 
for she thought her knowledge of mankind 
infallible. She had got some foolish idea of 
Madame de Stael's into her head, that a per- 
son may be better known in the first hour than 
in ten years. She had the habit of drawing 
people's characters after she had seen them 
once or twice. She wrote pages on pages 
about my character, but it was as unlike as 
possible. She was governed by what she 
called fixed rules and principles, squared 
mathematically. She would have made an 
excellent wrangler at Cambridge. It m.ust 
be confessed, however, that she gave no proof 
of her boasted consistency ; first, she refused 
me, then she accepted me, then she separated 
herself from me — so much for consistency. I 
need not tell you of the obloquy and oppro- 
brium that were cast upon my name when 
our separation was made public ; I once made 
a list from the journals of the day of the dif- 
ferent worthies, ancient and modern, to whom 
I was compared : I remember a few, Nero, 
Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, 

Henry the Eighth, and lastly, the — All 

my former friends, even my cousin George 
Byron, who had been brought up with me, 
and whom I loved as a brother, took my wife's 
part: he followed the stream when it was 
strongest against me, and can never expect 
any thing from me ; he shall never touch a 
sixpence of mine. I was looked upon as the 
worst of husbands, the most abandoned and 
wicked of men ; and my wife as a suffering 
angel, an incarnation of aU the virtues and 
perfections of the sex. I was abused in the 
public prints, made the common talk of pri- 
vate companies, hissed as I went to the House 
of Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to go 
to the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs. 
Mardyn had been driven with insult. The 
Examiner was the only paper that dared say 
a word in my defence, and Lady Jersey the 
only person in the fashionable world that did 
not look upon me as a monster." 

" In addition to all these mortifications, my 
affairs were irretrievably involved, and almost 
so as to make me what they wished m. wai 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XIX 



compelled to part with Newstead, which I 
?iever could have ventured to sell in my moth- 
er's lifetime. As it is, I shall never forgive 
myself for having done so, though I am told 
that the estate would not bring half as much 
as I got for it : this does not at all reconcile 
me to having parted with the old Abbey. I 
did not make up my mind to this step but from 
the last necessity ; I had my wife's portion to 
repay, and was determined to add 10,000/. 
more of my own to it, which I did : I always 
hated being in debt, and do not owe a guinea. 
The moment I had put my affairs in train, and 
in little more than eighteen months after my 
m_arriage, I left England, an involuntary ex- 
ile, intending it should be for ever." 

We shall here avail ourselves of some ob- 
servations by a powerful and elegant critic,' 
whose opinions on the personal character of 
Lord Byron, as well as on the merits of his 
poems, are, from their originality, candour, 
and keen discrimination, of considerable 
weight. 

"The charge against Lord Byron," says 
this writer, " is, not that he fell a victim to 
excessive temptations, and a combination of 
circumstances, which it required a rare and 
extraordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, pru- 
dence, and steadiness to surmount ; but that 
he abandoned a situation of uncommon ad- 
vantages, and fell weakly, pusillanimously, 
and selfishly, when victory would have been 
easy, and when defeat was ignominious. In 
reply to this charge, I do not deny that liOrd 
Byron inherited some very desirable, and even 
enviable privileges in the lot of life which fell 
to his share. I should falsify my own senti- 
ments,- if I treated lightly the gift of an an- 
cient English peerage, and a name of honour 
and venerable antiquity; but without a for- 
tune competent to that rank, it is not ' a bed 
of roses,' nay, it is attended with many and 
extreme difficulties, and the difficulties are 
exactly such as a genius and temper like Lord 
Byron's were least calculated to meet — at any 
rate, least calculated to meet under the pecu- 
liar collateral circumstances in which he was 
placed. His income was very narrow; his 
Newstead property left him a very small dis- 
posable surplus; his Lancashire property was, 
in its condition, etc., unproductive. A pro- 
fession, such as the army, might have lessened, 
or almost annihilated the difficulties of his pe- 
culiar position ; but probably his lameness 
rendered this impossible. He seems to have 
had a love of independence, which was noble, 
and probably even an intractability ; but this 
temper added to his indisposition to bend and 
adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, 
or intriguing man, without a single good 
(quality of head or heart, might have managed 
it much better ; he might have made himself 
subservient to government, and wormed him- 
self into some lucrative place ; or he might 
have lived meanly, conformed himself stu- 
pidly or cringingly to all humours, and been 



1 Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart, who has written so 
difFiff-cy and so ably on Lord Byron's genius and 
charactts: 



borne onward on the wings of society with 
little personal expense. 

"Lord Byron was of another quality and 
temperament. If the world would not con- 
form to him, still less would he conform to the 
world. He had all the manly, baronial pride 
of his ancestors, though he had not all their 
wealth, and their means of generosity, hospi- 
tality, and patronage. He had the will, alas ! 
without the power. 

" With this temper, these feelings, this ge- 
nius, exposed to a combination of such un- 
toward and trying circumstances, it would 
indeed have been inimitably praiseworthy if 
Lord Byron could have been always wise, 
prudent, calm, correct, pure, virtuous, and 
unassailable : — if he could have shown all the 
force and splendour of his mighty poetical en- 
ergies, without any mixture of their clouds, 
their baneful lightnings, or their storms: — if 
he could have preserved all his sensibility to 
every kind and noble passion, yet have re- 
mained placid, and unaffected by the attack 
of any blamealDle emotion ; — that is, it would 
have been admirable if he had been an angel, 
and not a man ! 

" Unhappily, the outrages he received, the 
gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, 
even in the time of his highest favour with the 
public, turned the delights of his very days 
of triumph to poison, and gave him a sort of 
moody, fierce, and violent despair, which led 
to humours, acts, and words, that mutually 
aggravated the ill-will and the offences be- 
tween him and his assailants. There was a 
daring spirit in his temper and his talents, 
which was always inflamed rather than cor- 
rected by opposition. 

" In this most unpropitious state of things, 
every thing that went wrong was attributed 
to Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, 
was assumed and argued upon as an undenia- 
ble fact. Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear, — 
quite unattended by a particle of doubt, — that 
in many things in which he has been the most 
blamed, he was the absolute victim of misfor- 
tune; that unpropitious trains of events (for 
I do not wish to shift the blame on others) led 
to explosions and consequent derangements, 
which no cold, prudent pretender to extreme 
propriety and correctness could have averted 
or met in a manner less blameable than +bat 
in which Lord Byron met it. 

" It is not easy to conceive a character less 
fitted to conciliate general society by his man- 
ners and habits, than that of Lord Byron. It 
is probable that he could make his address 
and conversation pleasing to ladies, when he 
chose to please ; but, to the young dandies of 
fashion, noble and ignoble, he must have been 
very repulsive : as long as he continued to be 
the ton, — the lion, — they may have endured 
him without opening their mouths, because lie 
had a frown and a lash which they were not 
willing to encounter ; but when his back was* 
turned, and they thought it safe, 1 do not 
doubt that they burst out into full cry ! I have 
heard complaints of his vanity, his peevish- 
ness, his desire to monopolize distinction, ln« 
dislike of all hobbies but his own. It is no< 



?x 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



improbablt that there may have been some 
foundation for these complaints : I am sorry 
for it if there was ; I regret such littlenesses. 
And then another part of the story is proba- 
bly left untold : we hear nothing of the provo- 
cations given him ;— sly hints, curve of the 
lip, side^looks, treacherous smiles, flings at 
poetry, shrugs at noble authors, slang jokes, 
idiotic bets, enigmatical appointments, and 
boasts of being senseless brutes ! We do not 
hear repeated the jest of the glory of the Jew, 
that buys the ruined peer's falling castle ; the 
d — d good felloiV, that keeps tlie finest stud 
and the best hounds in the country out of the 
snippings and odds and ends of his contract ; 
and the famous good match that the duke's 
daughter is going to make with Dick Wigly, 
the son of the rich slave-merchant at Liver- 
pool I We do not hear the clever dry jests 

whispered round the table by Mr. , eldest 

son of the new and rich Lord , by young 

Mr. , only son of Lord , the ex-lords 

A., B., and C, sons of the three Irish Union 
earls, great borough-holders, and the very 

grave and sarcastic Lord , who believes 

that he has the monopoly of all the talents, 
and all the political and legislative knowledge 
of the kingdom, and that^a poet and a bell- 
man are only fit to be yoked together. 

" Thus, then, was this illustrious and mighty 
poet driven into exile ! Yes, driven ! who 
would live in a country in which he had been 
so used, even though it was the land of his 
nativity, the land of a thousand noble ances- 
tors, the land of freedom, the land where his 
head had been crowned with laurels, — but 
where his heart had been tortured, where all 
his most generous and most noble thoughts 
had been distorted and rendered ugly, and 
where his slightest errors and indiscretions 
had been magnified into hideous crimes." 

Lord Byron's own opinions on the connu- 
bial state are thus related by Captain Parry: — 

" There are," said his lordship, " so many 
undefinable, and nameless, and not-to-be- 
named causes of dislike, aversion, and disgust, 
in the matrimonial state, that it is always im- 
possible for the piiblic, or the best friends of 
the parties, to judge between man and wife. 
Theirs is a relation about which nobody but 
themselves can form a correct idea, or have 
any right to speak. As long as neither party 
commits gross injustice towards the other ; as 
long as neither the woman nor the man is 
guiFty of any offence which is injurious to the 
community ; as long as the husband provides 
for his offspring, and secures the public against 
the dangers arising from their neglected edu- 
cation, or from the charge of supporting them ; 
by what right does it censure him for ceasing 
to dwell under the same roof with a woman, 
who is to him, because he knows her, while 
others do not, an object of loathing? Can any 
thing be more monstrous than for the public 
voice to compel individual* who dislike each 
otner to continue their cohabitation ? This is 
at least the effect of its interfering with a re- 
lationsmp, of which it has no possible means 
of judging. It does not indeed drag a man to 
B woman's bed by physical force ; but it does 



exert a moral force continually and effectively 
to accomplish the same purpose. Nobody can 
escape this force but those who are too high, 
or those who are too low, for pubhc opinion te 
reach; or those hypocrites who are, before 
others, the loudest in their approbation of the 
empty and unmeaning forms of society, that 
they may securely indulge all their propensi- 
ties in secret. I have suffered amazingly from 
this interference ; for though I set it at defi 
ance, I was neither too high nor too low to bo 
read jd by it, and I was not hypocrite enough 
to guard myself from its consequences. 

" What do they say of my family affairs in 
England, Parry? My story, I suppose, like 
other minor events, interested the people for a 
day, and was then forgotten?" I replied, no; 
I thought, owing to the very great interest the 
pubhc" took in him, it was still remembered 
and talked about. I mentioned that it was 
generally supposed a difference of religious 
sentiments between him and Lady Byron had 
caused the public breach. " No, Parry," was 
the reply; " Lady Byron has a liberal mind, 
particularly as to rehgious opinions ; and I 
wish, when I married her, that I had possess- 
ed the same command over myself that I cow 
do. Had I possessed a little more wisdom, 
and more forbearance, we might have been 
happy. I wished, when I was^first married, 
to have remained in the country, particularly 
till my pecuniary embarrassments were over. 
I knew the society of London ; I knew the 
characters of many of those who are called 
ladies, with whom "Lady Byron would neces- 
sarily have to associate, and I dreaded her 
contact with them. But I have too much of 
my mother about me to be dictated to : I like 
freedom from constraint; I hate artificial regu- 
lations : my conduct has alwaj's been dictated 
by my own feelings, and Lady Byron was 
quite the creature of rules. She was not per- 
mitted either to ride, or run, or walk, but as 
the physician prescribed. She was not suf- 
fered to go out when I wished to go ; and then 
the old house was a mere ghost-house ; 1 
dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking. 
It was an existence I could not support." 
Here Lord Byron broke off abruptly, saying, 
" I hate to speak of my family affairs ; though 
I have been compelled to talk nonsense con 
corning them to some of my butterfly visitors, 
glad on any terms to get rid of their importu- 
nities. I long to be again on the mountains. I 
am fond of solitude, and should never talk non- 
sense if I always found plain men to talk to." 

In the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted 
England, to return to it no more. He crossed 
over to France, through which he passed 
rapidly to Brussels, taking in his way a sur- 
vey of the field of Waterloo. He then pro 
ceeded to Coblentz, and up the Rhine to 
Basle. He passed the summer on the banks 
of the lake of Geneva. With what enthusi- 
asm he enjoyed, and with what contemplations 
he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry 
soon exhibited to the world. His third canto of 
Childe Harold his Manfred, and his Prisoner 
of Chillon. "^Acre composed at the Campagno 
Diodati^ at Coligny, a mile from Geneva 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXI 



These productions evidently proved, that 
the unfortunate events which had induced 
Lord Byron to become a voluntary exile from 
his native land, however they might have ex- 
acerbated his feelings, had in no measure chill- 
ed his poetical fire. 

The anecdotes that follow are given as his 
lordship related them to Captain Medwin : 

" Switzerland is a country I have been satis- 
fied with seeing once ; Turkey I could live in 
for ever. I never forget my predilections. I 
was in a wretched state of health, and worse 
spirits, when I was at Geneva ; but quiet and 
the lake, physicians better than Polidori, soon 
set me up. Tnever led so moral a life as during 
my residence in that country ; but I gained 
no credit by it. Where there is a mortifica- 
tion, there ought to be reward. On the con- 
trary, there is no story so absurd that they did 
not "invent at my cost. I was watched by 
glasses on the opposite side of the lake, and 
by glasses too that must have had very dis- 
torted optics. I was waylaid in my evening 
drives — I was accused of corrupting all the 
^risettes in the rue Basse. I believe that they 
looked upon me as a man-monster worse than 
the pi queur." 

" I knew ver}^ few of the Genevese. Hentsh 
was verj^ civil to me ; and I have a great re- 
spect for Sismondi. I was forced to return 
the civilities of one of their professors by ask- 
mg him, and an old gentleman, a friend of 
Gray's, to dine with me. I had gone out to 
sail early in the morning, and the wind pre- 
vented me from returning in time for dinner. 
I understand that I offended them mortally. 
Polidori did the honours. 

" Among our countrymen I made no new 
acquaintances; Shelley, IMonk Lewis, and 
Hobhouse, were almost the only English peo- 
ple I saw. No wonder ; I showed a distaste for 
society at that time, and went little among the 
Genevese; besides, I could not speak French. 
What is become of my boatman and boat? I 
suppose she is rotten ; she was never worth 
much. When I went the tour of the lake in 
her with Shelley and Hobhouse, she was nearly 
wrecked near the very spot where Saint- 
Preux and Julia Avere in danger of being 
drowned. It would have been classical to 
have been lost there, but not so agreeable. 
Shelley was on the lake much oftener than I. 
a.t all hours of the night and day : he almost 
lived on it ; his great rage is a boat. We are 
both building now at Genoa, I a yacht, and 
he an open boat." 

" Somebody possessed Madame de Stael with 
an opinion of my immorality. I used occa- 
sionally to visit her at Coppet ; and once she 
invited me to a family-dinner, and I found the 
room full of strangers, who had come to stare 
at me as at some outlandish beast in a raree- 
show. One of the ladies fainted, and the rest 
looked as if his satanic majesty had been 
among them. IMadame -^e Stael took the 
liberty to read me a lecture before this crowd, 
to which I only made her a low bow." 

His lordship's travelling equipage was 
rather a singular one. and afforded a strange 
catalogue for the Dogana: seven servants. 



five carriages, nine horses, a monkey, a bull- 
dog and mastiff, two cats, three pea -fowls, and 
some hens, (I do not know whether I have 
classed them in order of rank), formed part 
of his live stock; these, and all his books, 
consisting of a very large library of modern 
works, (for he bought all the best that came 
out), together with a vast quantity of furni- 
ture, might well be termed, with Caesar, " im- 
pediments." 

From about the commencement of the yea. 
1817 to that of 1820, Lord Byron's principal 
residence was Venice. Here he continued to 
employ himself in poetical composition with 
an energy still increasing. He wrote the La- 
ment of Tasso, the fourth canto of Childe 
Harold, the dramas of Marino Fahero, and 
the Two Foscari : Beppo, Mazeppa, and the 
earlier cantos of Don Juan, etc. 

Considering these only with regard to in- 
tellectual activity and force, there can be no 
difference of opinion; though there may be 
as to their degree of poetical excellence, the 
class in the scale of literan,' merit to which 
they belong, and their moral, religious, and 
political tendencies. The Lament of Tasso, 
which in every line abounds in the most per- 
fect poetry, is liable to no countervaihng ob- 
jection on the part of the moralist. 

In the third canto of the " Pilgrimage," the 
discontented and repining spirit of Harold 
had already become much softened : 

" Joy was not ahva}'s absent from his face, 
Bu'c o'er it in such scenes would steal ^^^th tranquil 
grace." 

He is a being of still gentler mould in the 
fourth canto; his despair has even sometimes 
assumed a smilingness, and the lovely and 
lively creations of the poet's brain are less 
painfully alloyed, and less suddenly checked 
by the gloomy visions of a morbid imagina- 
tion. He represented himself, from the be- 
ginning, as a ruin; and when we first gazed 
upon him, we saw indeed in abundance the 
black traces of recent violence and convul- 
sion. The edifice was not rebuilt ; but its 
hues were softened by the passing wings of 
Time, and the calm slow ivy had found leisure 
to wreath the soft green of its melancholy 
among the fragments of the decay. In so far 
the pilgrim became wiser, as he seemed to 
think more of others, and with a greater spirit 
of humanit}'. There was something fiendish 
in the air with which he surveyed the first 
scene of his wanderings ; and no proof of the 
strength of genius Avas ever exhibited so 
strong and unquestionable as the sudden and 
entire possession of the minds of men by such 
a being as he then appeared to be. He looked 
upon a bull-fight and a field of battle with no 
variety of emotion. Brutes and men were, 
in his eyes, the same blind, stupid victims of 
the savage lust of power. He seemed to shut 
his eyes to every thing of that citizenship and 
patriotism which ennobles the spirit of the 
soldier, and to delight in scattering the dust 
and ashes of his derision over all the most sa- 
cred resting-places of the soul of man. Even 
then, we must allow, the original spirit 91 tii' 



XXI I 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



Englishman and the poet broke triumphantly, 
at times, through the chilling mist in which it 
had been spontaneously enveloped. In Greece, 
above all, the contem'plation of Actium, Sa- 
lamis, Marathon, Thermopylae, and Plataea, 
subduod the prejudices of him who had gazed 
unmoved, or with disdain, upon fields of more 
recent glory. The nobilit\- of manhood ap- 
peared to delight tliis moody visitant : and he 
accorded, without reluctance, to the shades 
of long departed heroes that reverent homage 
whichT in the strange mixture of envy and 
scorn ^^herewith the contemplative so often 
regard active men, he had refused to the Liv- 
ing, or to the newly dead. 

But there would be no end of descanting 
on the character of the Pilgrim, nor of the 
moral reflections which it aAvakens ; we there- 
fore take leave of Childe Harold in his own 
beautiful language : 

Farewell I a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us Unser ; — yet, farewell ! 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thousht. which once was his, if on 5-e swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore Iiis sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
FdreweU! ****** 
* ******* 

Alas ! we must now say farewell " for erer." 

Manfred was the first of Lord Byron's dra- 
matic poems, and, we think, the finest. The 
spirit of his genius seems there wrestling with 
the spirit of his nature, the struggle being for 
the palm of sublimity. jManfred has always ap- 
peared to us one of the most genuine creations 
of the noble bard's mind. The melancholy is 
more heartfelt : the poet does not here seem 
to scowl his brows, but they drop under the 
weight of his thoughts ; his intellect, too. is 
strongly at work in it, and the stern haughti- 
ness of tlie principal character is altogether 
of an intellectual cast : the conception of this 
character is INIiltonic. The poet has made 
him worthy to abide amongst those " palaces 
of nature," those " icy halls," " where, forms 
and falls the avalanche." Manfred stands up 
against the stupendous scenery of the poem, 
and is as lofty, towering, and grand as the 
mountains : when we picture him in imagina- 
tion, he assumes a shape of height and inde- 
pendent dignit}', shining in its own splendour 
amongst the snowy summits which he was ac- 
customed to chmb. The passion, too, in this 
composition, is fervid and impetuous, but at 
the same time deep and full, which is not al- 
ways the case in Byron's productions ; it is 
serious and sincere throughout. The music 
of the language is as solemn and as touching 
as that of the Vind coming through the bend- 
ing ranks of the inaccessible Alpine forests; 
and the mists and vapours rolling down the 
gullies and ravines ihat yawn horribly on the 
eye, are not more wild and striking in their 
appearance than are the supernatural crea- 
tions of the poet's fancy, whose magical agen- 
'iV is of mighty import, but is nevertheless 
fonnnually surmounted by the high inteUec- 
'.ual power, invincible will, and intrepid phi- 
v»3ophy of Manfred. 



The first idea of the descriptive passages of 
this beautifiil poem will be easily recognised 
in the following extract from Lord Byron a 
travelling memorandum book : 

"Sept. 22, 1816. Left Thun in a boat, 
which carried us the length of this lake in 
three hours. The lake small, but the banks 
fine — rocks down to the water's edge — landed 
at Newhouse. Passed Interlachen — entered 
upon a range of scenes beyond all description 
or previous conception. Passed a rock bear- 
ing an inscription — two brothers — one mur- 
dered the other — just the place for it. After 
a variety of windings, came to an enormous 
rock — arrived at the foot of the mountain (the 
Jungfraw] — glaciers — torrents — one of these 
9CM3 feet visible descent — lodge at the curate's 
— set out to see the valley — heard an avalanche 
fall, like thunder I — glaciers enormous — storm 
comes on — thunder and lightning, and hail ! 
all in perfection and beautiful. The torrent 
is in shape, curving over the rock, like tlie 
tail of the white horse streaming in the wind 
— just as might be conceived would be that of 
the ' Pale Horse,' on which Death is mounted 
in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor wa- 
ter, but a something between both; its im- 
mense height gives "it a wave, a curve, a 
spreading here, a condension tliere — wonder- 
ful — indescribable. 

" Sept. 23. Ascent of the Wingren, the 
Dent d'argent shining like truth on one side, 
on the other the clouds rose from the opposite 
valley, curling up perpendicular precipices, 
like the foarn of the ocean of hell during a 
spring tide ! It was white and sulphury, and 
immeasurably deep in appearance. The side 
we ascended was of course not of so precipi- 
tous a nature, but on arriving at the summit 
we looked down on the other side upon a boil- 
in or sea of cloud, dashing against the crag on 
which we stood. Arrived "at the Greender- 
wold : mounted and rode to the higher glacier 
— twilight, but distinct — very fine — glacier 
like a frozen hurricane — starlight beautiful — 
the whole of the day was fine^ and, in point 
of weather, as the day in which Paradise was 
made. Passed whole woods of withered pines 
— all withered — trunks stripped, and lifeless — 
done by a single winter." 

Of Lord Byron's tragedies we shall merely 
remark, with" reference to the particular na- 
ture of their tragic character, that the effect 
of them all is rather grand, terrible, and ter- 
rific, than mollifying, subduing, or pathetic. 
As dramatic poems, they possess much beauty 
and originalit}'. 

The style and nature of the poem of Don 
Juan forms a singularly fehcitous mixture of 
burlesque and pathos, of humorous observa 
tion, and the higher elements of poetical com 
position. Never was the English language 
festooned into more luxurious stanzas than in 
Don Juan : like the dolphin sporting in its na 
tive waves, at every turn, however grotesque 
displaying a new hue and a new beauty, so 
the nobleauthor there shows an absolute con- 
trol over his means, and at every cadence, 
rhyme, or construction, hoAvever whimsical 
delights us with novel and mag.cal associ'> 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXlli 



tions. We wish, we heartily wish, that the 
fine poetry which is so richly scattered through 
the sixteen cantos of this most original and 
most astonishing production, had not been 
mixed up with very much that is equally frivo- 
lous as foolish ; and sincerely do we regret, 
that the alloying dross of sensuality should run 
so freely through the otherwise rich vein of 
the author's verse. 

Whilst at Venice, Byron displayed a most 
noble instance of generosity. The house of a 
shoemaker, near his lordship's residence in 
St. Samuel, was burnt to the ground, with 
every article it contained, and the proprietor 
reduced, with a large family, to the greatest 
indigence and want. When Lord Byron as- 
certained the afflicting circumstancee of that 
calamity, he not only ordered a new and su- 
perior habitation to be immediately built for 
the sufferer, the whole expense of which was 
borne by his lordship, but also presented the 
unfortunate tradesman with a sum equal in 
value to the whole of his lost stock in trade 
and furniture. 

Lord Byron avoided, as much as possible, 
any intercourse with his countrymen at Ven- 
ice ; this seems to have been in a great mea- 
sure necessary, in order to prevent the intru- 
sion of impertinent curiosity. In an appendix 
to one of his poems, written with reference to 
a book of travels, the author of which dis- 
claimed any wish to be introduced to the no- 
ble lord, he loftily and sarcastically chastises 
the incivility of such a gratuitous declaration, 
expresses his " utter abhorrence of any con- 
tact with the travelling English;" and thus 
concludes: "Except Lords Lansdowue, Jer- 
sey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Ham- 
mond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the late Mr. 
Lewis, W. Bankes, M. Hoppner, Thomas 
B'loore, Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, 
and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have 
exchanged a word with another Englishman 
since I left their country, and almost all these 
I had known before. The others, and God 
knows there were some hundreds, who bored 
me with letters or visits, I refused to have any 
communication with ; and shall be proud and 
happy when that wish becomes mutual." 

After a residence of three years at Venice, 
Lord Byron removed to Ravenna, towards the 
close of the year 1819. Here he wrote the 
Prophecy of Dante, which exhibited a new 
specimen of the astonishing variety of strength 
and expa»nsion of faculties he possessed and 
exercised. About the same time he wrote 
Sardanapalus, a tragedy; Cain, a mystery; 
and Heaven and Earth, a mystery. Though 
there are some obvious reasons which render 
Sardanapalus unfit for the English stage, it is, 
on the whole, the most splendid specimen 
which our language affords of that species of 
Iragedy which was the exclusive object of 
Ijord Byron's admiration. Cain is one of the 
productions which has subjected its noble au- 
thor to the severest denunciations, on account 
of the crime of impiety alleged against it ; as 
it seems to have a tendency to call in question 
the benevolence of Providence. In answer 
to the loud and general outcry which this pro- 



duction occasioned, Lord Byron observed, iv 
a letter to his publisher, •' If ' Cain' be blas- 
phemous, ' Paradise Lost' is blasphemous, and 
the words of the Oxford gentleman, ' Evil, be 
thou my good,' are from that very poem from 
the mouth of Satan ; and is there any thing 
more in that of Lucifer in the mystery ? 
' Cain' is nothing more than a drama, not a 
piece of argument: if Lucifer and Cain speak 
as the first rebel and first murderer may be 
supposed to speak, nearly all the rest of the 
personages talk also according to their char- 
acters ; and the stronger passions have ever 
been permitted to the drama. I have avoided 
introducing the Deity as in Scripture, though 
Milton does, and not very wisely either: but 
have adopted his angel as sent to Cain instead, 
on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on 
the subject, by falling short of what all unin- 
spired men must fall short in, viz. giving an 
adequate notion of the effect of the presence 
of Jehovah. The old mysteries introduced 
him liberally enough, and all this I avoided in 
the new one." 

An event occurred at Ravenna during his 
lordship's stay there, which made a deep im- 
pression on him, and to which he alludes in 
the fifth canto of Don Juan. The military 
commandant of the place, who, though sus- 
pected of being secretly a Carbonaro, was 
too powerful a man to be arrested, was assas- 
sinated opposite to Lord Byron's palace. His 
lordship had his foot in the stirrup at the usual 
hour of exercise, when his horse started at 
the report of a gun : on looking up. Lord By- 
ron perceived a man throw down a carbine 
and run away at full speed, and another man 
stretched upon the pavement a few yards from 
himself; it was the unhappy commandant. A 
crowd was soon collected, but no one ventured 
to offer the least assistance. Lord Byron di- 
rected his servant to lift up the bleeding body, 
and carry it into his palace ; though it was 
represented to him that by doing so he would 
confirm the suspicion, which was already en- 
tertained, of his belonging to the same party. 
Such an apprehension could have no effect on 
Byron's mind, when an act of humanity was 
to be performed ; he assisted in bearing the 
victim of assassination into the houscj and 
putting him on a bed. He was already dead 
from several wounds : " he appeared to have 
breathed his last without a struggle," said his 
lordship, when afterwards recounting the af- 
fair. " I never saw a countenance so calm. 
His adjutant followed the corpse into the house; 
I remember his lamentation over him : — 
' Povero diavolo! non aveva fatta male, ancho 
ad un cane.' " The following were the noble 
writer's poetical reflections (in Don Juan) ou 
viewing the dead bodv . 



" I gazed (as oft I gazed the same) 



To try if I could wrench aught out of death, 
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faitn '■ 
But it was all a mystery : — here we are, 

And there we go : — but where ? Five bits of Jead, 
Or three, or two, or one, send very far. 

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be sheo f 
Can every element our elements mar ? 
And air, eai-th, water, fire, — live, and we dead " 



XXIV 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



We whose minds comprehend all things ? — No more : 
But let us to the story as before." 

That a being of such glorious capabilities 
Bliould abstractedlj'^, and without an attempt 
to throw the responsibility on a fictitious per- 
Eonoge, have avowed such startling doubts, 
was a daring which, whatever might then have 
been his private opinion, he ought not to have 
hazarded. 

" It is difficult," observes Captain Medwin, 
" to jud^e, from the contradictory nature of 
his writings, what the religious opinions of 
Lord Byron really were From the conver- 
sations I held with him, on the whole, I am 
inclined to think, that if he were occasionally 
sceptical, and thought it, as he says in Don 
Juan, 

' A pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float 

Like Pyrrho, in a sea of speculation,' 

yet his wavering never amounted to a disbe- 
lief in the divine Founder of Christianity. 

" Calling on him one day," continues the 
Captain, " we found him, as was sometimes 
the case, silent, dull, and sombre. At length 
he said : ' Here is a little book somebody has 
sent me about Christianity, that has made me 
very uncomfortable ; the reasoning seems to 
me very strong, the proofs are very stagger- 
ing. I don't think you can answer it, Shelley, 
at least I am sure I can't, and what is more, I 
don't wish it.' 

" Speaking of Gibbon, Lord Byron said : 

' L — B thought the question set at rest 

in the History of the Decline and Fall, but I 
am not so easily convinced. It is not a matter 
of volition to unbelieve. Who likes to own 
that he has been a fool all his life, — to unlearn 
all that he has been taught in his youth, or 
can think that some of the best men "that ever 
lived have been fools ? I don't know why I am 
considered an unbeliever. I disowned, the 
other day, that I was of Shelley's school in 
metaphysics, though I admired his poetry: 
not but what he has changed his mode of 
thinking very much since he wrote the notes 
to " Queen Mab," which I was accused of 
having a hand in. I know, however, that / 
am co^nsidered an infidel. My wife and sister, 
when they joined parties, sent me prayer- 
books. There was a Mr. Mulock, who went 
about the continent preaching orthodoxy in 
politics and rehgrion, a writer of bad sonnets, 
and a lecturer in worse prose, — he tried to 
convert me to some new sect of Christianity. 
He was a great anti-materialist, and abused 
Locke.' 

" On anot'ner occasion he said : ' I have just 
received a letter from a Mr. Sheppard, in- 
closing a prayer made for my welfare by his 
wife, a few days before her death. The letter 
states that lie has had the misfortune to lose 
this amiable woman, who had seen me at 
Ramsgate, many years ago, rambling among 
the clifls ; that she had been impressed with a 
sense of my irreligion from the tenor of my 
works, and had often prayed fervently for my 
conversion, particularly in her last m'oments. 
The prayer is beautifully written. I like de- 



votion in women. She must have been a en 
vine creature. I pity the man who has los" 
her ! I shall write to him by return of the 
courier, to condole with him, and tell him that 
Mrs. S. need not have entertained any con- 
cern for my spiritual affairs, for that no mar. 
is more of a Christian than I am, whatevei 
my writings may have led her and others to 
suspect.' " 

We have given the above extracts from a 
sense of justice to the memory of Lord By- 
ron ; they are redeeming and consolatory evi- 
dences that his heart was far from being 
sheathed in unassailable scepticism, and, as 
such, ought not to be omitted in a preface to 
his works. 

In the autumn of 1821, the noble bard re- 
moved to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his 
residence there in the Lanfranchi palace, and 
engaged in an intrigue with the beautiful 
Guiccioli, wife of the count of that name, 
which connexion, with more than his usual 
constancy, he maintained for nearly three 
years, during which period the countess was 
separated from her husband, on an apphca- 
tion from the latter to the Pope. 

The following is a sketch of this '' fair en- 
chantress," as taken at the time the liaison 
was formed between her and Byron. "• The 
countess is twenty-three years of age, though 
she appears no more than seventeen or eigh- 
teen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her 
complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, 
large, dark, and languishing, are shaded by 
the longest eyelashes in the world, and her 
hair, which is ungathered on her head, plays 
over her falling shoulders in a profusion of 
natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her 
figure is, perhaps, too much embonpoint for 
her height; but her bust is perfect. Pier 
features want little of possessing a Grecian 
regularity of outline; and she has the most 
beautiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is 
impossible to see without admiring — to hear 
the Guiccioli speak without being fascinated. 
Her amiability and e-entleness show them- 
selves in every intonation of her voice, v/hich, 
and the music of her perfect Italian, gives a 
peculiar charm to every thing she utters. 
Grace and elegance seem component parts 
of her nature. Notwithstanding that she 
adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the ex- 
ile and poverty of her aged fatljer sometimes 
afTect her spirits, and throw a shade of melan- 
choly on her countenance, which adds to the 
deep interest this lovely woman creates. Her 
conversation is lively without being learned; 
she has read all the best authors of her own 
and the French language. She often conceals 
what she knows, from the fear of being thouglit 
to know too much, possibly from being aware 
that Lord Byron was not fond of blues. He 
is certainly very much attached to her, with- 
out being actually in love. His description 
of the Georgioni in tlie Manfrini palace at 
Venice, is meant for the countess. The beau- 
tjful sonnet prefixed to the ' Prophecy of 
Dante' was addressed to her." 

The annexed lines, written ly Byron when 



ne was about to quit Venice to join the count- 
ess at Ravenna, will show the state of his 
feelings at that time : 

" River ' that roUest by the ancient walls 
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by the brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 

" What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mirror of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ? 

" What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art, were my passions long. 

" Time may have somewhat tamed them; not for ever 
Thou overflow'st thy banks ; and not for aye 

Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 

Thy floods subside, aad mine have sunk away — 

" But left long wrecks behind them, and again 
Borne on our old unchanged career, we move ; 

Thou tendest wildly onward to the main, 
And I to loving one I should not love. 

" The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

" She will look on thee ; I have look'd on thee 
Full of that thought, and from that momont ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her. 

" Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream ; 

Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 
Mine cannot witness, even in a drearn, 

That happy wave repass me in its flow. 

" The wave that bears my tears returns no more ; 

Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ? 
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore ; 

I near thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 

" But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot. 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

" A stranger loves a lady of the land. 

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 

Is all meridian, as if never farm'd 

By the bleak wind Uiat chills the polar flood. 

"My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
I had not left my clime ; — I shall not be, 

In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love, at least of thee. 

" 'T is vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved : 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 

And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved." 

It is impossible to conceive amore unvaried 
^ife than Lord Byron led at this period in the 
societ}^ of a few select friends. Billiards, con 
versation, or reading, filled up the intervals 
till it was time to take the evening-drive, ride, 
and pistol-practice. 

He dined at half an hour after sunset, then 
drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guic- 
cioli's father, passed several hours in her so- 
ciety, returned to his palace, and either read 



1 The To. 
4 



or wrote till two or three in the morning ; 
occasionally drinking spirits diluted with wa- 
ter as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic 
complaint, to which he was, or fancied him- 
self, subject. 

While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a sen 
ous affray occurred, in which he was person- 
ally concerned. Taking his usual ride, with 
some friends, one of them was violently jostled 
by a serjeant-major of hussars, who dashed, 
at full speed, through the midst of the party. 
They pursued and overtook him near the 
Piaggia gate ; but their rem.onstrances were 
answered only by abuse and menace, and an 
attempt, on the part of the guard at the gate, 
to arrest them. This occasioned a severe 
scuffle, in which several of Lord Byron's party 
were wounded, as was also the hussar. The 
consequence was, that all Lord Byron's ser- 
vants (who were warmly attached to him, and 
had shown great ardour in his defence), were 
banished from Pisa ; and with them the Counts 
Gamba, father and son. Lord Byron was him- 
self advised to leave it ; and as the countess 
accompanied her father, he soon after joined 
them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at 
Monte Nero. His return to Pisa was occa- 
sioned by a new persecution of the Counts 
Gamba. An order was issued for them to 
leave the Tuscan states in four daj's ; ana 
after their embarkation for Genoa, the count- 
ess and Lord Byron openly lived together, a« 
the Lanfranchi palace. 

It was at Pisa that BjTon wrote " Werner," 
a tragedy ; the " Deformed Transformed," 
and continued his " Don Juan" to the end of 
the sixteenth canto. We venture to intro- 
duce here the followins: critical summary of 
this wonderful production of genius. 

The poem of Don Juan has all sorts of 
faults, many of which cannot be defended^ 
and some of which are disgusting; but it Ijas, 
also, almost every sort of poetical merit : there 
are in it some of the finest passages Lord By- 
ron ever wrote ; there is amazing knowledge 
of human nature in it ; there is exquisite hu- 
mour; there is freedom, and bound, and vig- 
our of narrative, imagery, sentiment, and style, 
which are admirable ; there is a vast fertility 
of deep, extensive, and original thought ; and 
at the same time, there is the profusion of a 
prompt and most richly-stored m.emory. The 
invention is lively and poetical ; the descrip- 
tions are brilliant and glowing, yet not over- 
wrought, but fresh from nature, and faithful 
to her colours ; and the prevalent character 
of the whole, (bating too many dark spots), 
not dispiriting, though gloomy , not misan- 
thropic, though bitter; and not lepulsive io 
the visions of poetical enthusiasm, though 
indignant and resentful. 

Lord Byron's acquaintance with Leign 
Hunt, the late editor of the Examiner, origin- 
ated in his grateful feeling for the manner m 
which Mr. Hunt stood forward in his justifi 
cation, at a time when the current of public 
opinion ran strongly against him. This feel- 
ing induced him to invite Mr. Plunt to the 
Lanfranchi palace, Avhere a suite of aparr- 
ments were fitted up for him. On his ^rrivs 



in the sprmg of 1822, a periodical publication 
was projected, under the title of " The Lib- 
eral," of Avhich Hunt was to be the editor, 
and to which Lord Byron and Percy Shellej 
(who had been residing for some time on terms 
of great intimacy with his lordship) were to 
contribute. Three numbers of the "Liberal'' 
were published in London, when, in conse- 
quence of the unhappy fate of Mr. Shelley 
(who perished in the Mediterranean by the 
upsetting of a boat), and of other discouraging 
circumstances, it was discontinued. 

Byron attended the funeral of his poet 
friend; the following description of which, 
by a person who was present, is not without 
interest : — 

" 18th August, 1822. — On the occasion of 
Shelley's melancholy fate, I revisited Pisa, 
and on the day of my arrival, learnt that Lord 
Byron was gone to the sea-shore, to assist in 
performing the last offices to his friend. We 
came to a spot marked by an old and withered 
trunk of a fir-tree, and near it, on the beach, 
stood a solitary hut covered with reeds. The 
situation was well calculated for a poet's grave. 
A few weeks before, I had ridden with him 
and Lord Byron to this very spot, which I af- 
terwards visited more than once. In front 
was a magnificent extent of the blue and 
windless Mediterranean, with the isles of Elba 
and Guyana, — Lord Byron's yacht at anchor 
.n the offing: on the other side an almost 
boundless extent of sandy wilderness, uncul- 
tivated and uninhabited, here and there inter- 
spersed in tufts with underwood curved by 
the sea-breeze, and stunted by the barren and 
dry nature of the soil in which it grew. At 
equal distances along the coast stood high 
square towers, for the double purpose of guard- 
ing the coast from smuggling, and enforcing 
the quarantine laws. This view was bounded 
by an immense extent of the Italian Alps, 
which are here particularly picturesque from 
their volcanic and manifold appearances, and 
which, being composed of white marble, give 
their summits the appearance of snow. As a 
foreground to this picture appeared as extra- 
ordinary a group. Lord Byron and Trelawney 
were seen standing over the burning pile, with 
some of the soldiers of the guard ; and Leigh 
Hunt, whose feelings and nerves could not 
carry him through the scene of horror, lying 
back in the carriage,—the four post-horses 
ready to drop with the intensity of the noon- 
day sun. The stillness of all around was yet 
moie felt by the shrill scream of a solitary 
curlew, which, perhaps attracted by the body, 
wheeled in such narrow circles round the 
pile, that it might have been struck with the 
hand, and was so fearless that it could not be 
driven away. Looking at the corpse, Lord 
Byron said : — ' Why, that old black silk hand- 
kercliief retains its form better than that hu- 
man body !' Scarcely was the ceremony con- 
cluded, when Lord Byron, agitated by the 
spectacle he had witnessed, tried to dissipate 
in some degree the impression of it by his fa- 
vourite recreation. He took off his clothes, 
(lierefore. and swam to the yacht, which was 



riding a few miles distant. The heat of the 
sun and checked perspiration threw him into 
a fever, which he felt coming on before he left 
the water, and which became more violent 
before he reached Pisa. On his return, he 
immediately took a warm bath, and the next 
morning was perfectly recovered." 

The enmity between Byron and Southey, 
the poet-laureate, is as well known as that be- 
tween Pope and Colley Cibber. Their poli- 
tics were diametrically opposite, and the noble 
bard regarded the bard of royalty as a rene- 
gade from his early principles. It was not, 
however, so much on account of political 
principles that the enmity between Byron and 
Southey was kept up. The peer, in his satire, 
had handled the epics of the laureate " too 
roughly," and this the latter deeply resented. 
Whilst travelling on the continent, Southey 
observed Shelley's name in the Album, at 
Mont An vert, with " Afleoj" written after it, 
and an indignant comment in the same lan- 
guage written under it; also the names of some 
of Byron's other friends. The laureate, it is 
said, copied the names and the comment, and, 
on his return to England, reported the whole 
circumstances, and hesitated not to conclude 
Byron of the same principles as his friends. 
In a poem he subsequently wrote, called the 
'• Vision of Judgment," he stigmatized Lord 
Byron as the father of the " Satanic School 
of Poetry." His lordship, in a note appended 
to the " Two Foscari," retorted in a very se- 
vere manner, and even permitted himself to 
ridicule Southey's wife, the sister of Cole- 
ridge's wife, they having been at one time 
" two milliners of Bath." The laureate wrote 
an answer to this note in the Courier news- 
paper, which, when Byron saw it, enraged 
him so much, that he consulted with his friends 
whether or not he ought to go to England to 
answer it personally. In cooler moments, 
however, he resolved merely to write his 
" Vision of Judgment," which was a parody 
on Southey's, and appeared in one of the num- 
bers of the "Liberal," for which Hunt, the 
publisher, was prosecuted by the " Constitu- 
tional Association," and found guilty. 

As some of our readers may be curious to 
know the rate at which Lord Byron was paid 
for his productions, we annex the following 
statement, by Mr. Murray, the bookseller, of 
the sums given by him for the copy-rights ol 
most of his lordship's works : 

Childe Harold, I. II 600/. 

, III 1,575 

, IV 2,100 

Giaour . , 525 

Bride of Abydos 525 

Corsair 525 

Lara . • . • 7C0 

Siege of Corinth 525 

Parisina 525 

Lament of Tasso 315 

Manfred 31: 

Beppo 525 

Don JuEin, I. II 1,525 

, III. IV. V 1,525 

Doge of Venice , . 1,050 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXVI 



Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari, . . 1,100Z. 

Mazeppa 525 

Prisoner of Chillon 525 

Sundries 450 

Total 15,455?. 

As is the case with many men in affluent 
cij cumstances, Byron was at times more than 
generous; and again, at other times, what 
might be called mean. He once borrowed 
500/. in order to give it to the widow of one 
who had been his friend ; he frequently dined 
on five Pauls, and once gave his bills to a lady 
to be examined, because he thought he was 
cheated. He gave lOOOZ. for a yacht, which 
he sold again for 300Z. , and refused to give the 
sailors their jackets. It ought, however, to be 
observed, that generosity was natural to him, 
and that his avarice, if it can be so termed, 
was a mere whim or caprice of the moment — 
a role he could not long sustain. He once 
borrowed lOOZ. to give to the brother-in-law 
of Southey, Coleridge, the poet, when the 
latter was in distress. In his quarrel with the 
laureate, he was provoked to allude to this 
circumstance, which certainly he ought not 
to have done. 

Byron was a great admirer of the Waverley 
novels, and never travelled without them. 
" They are," said he to Captain Medwin one 
day, " a library in themselves, — a perfect lite- 
rary treasure. I could read them once a-year 
with new pleasure." During that morning, 
he had been reading one of Sir Walter's nov- 
els, and delivered, according to Medwin, the 
following criticism : " How difficult it is to 
say any thing new ! Who was that voluptuary 
of antiquity, who ofiered a reward for a new 
pleasure? Perhaps all nature and art could 
not supply a new idea." 

The anxious and paternal tenderness Lord 
Byron felt for his daughter, is exi)ressed with 
unequalled beauty and pathos in the first 
stanza of the third canto of Childe Harold. 
" What do you think of Ada ?" said he to Med- 
win, looking earnestly at his daughter's minia- 
ture, that hung by the side of his writing-ta- 
ble. " They tell me she is like me — but she 
has her mother's ej'es. It is very odd that my 
mother was an only child ; — I am an only child ; 
my wife is an only child ; and Ada is an only 
child. It IS a singular coincidence; that is 
the least that can be said of it. I can't help 
thinkmg it was destined to be so ; and perhaps 
it is best. I was once anxious for a son ; but, 
after our separation, was glad to have had a 
daughter ; for it would have distressed me too 
much to have taken him away from Lady By- 
ron, and I could not have trusted her with a 
son's education. I have no idea of boys being 
brought up by mothers. I suffered too much 
from that myself: and then, wandering about 
the world as I do, I could not take proper care 
of a child ; otherwise I should not have left 
AUegra, poor little thing ! at Ravenna. She 
has been a great resource to me, though I am 
not so fond of her as of Ada : and yet I mean 
to make their fortunes equal — there will be 
enough for them both. I have desired in my 
will that Ailegra shall not marry an English- 



man. The Irish and Scotch make better bus 
bands than we do. You will think it was an 
odd fancy ; but I was not in the best of hu- 
mours with my countrymen at that moment 
— you know the reason. I am told that Ada 
is a little termagant ; I hope not. I shall write 
to my sister to know if this is the case : per- 
haps I am wrong in letting Lady Byron have 
entirely her own way in her education. I hear 
that my name is not mentioned in her pres- 
ence ; that a green curtain is always kept 
over my portrait, as over something forbidden ; 
and that she is not to know that she has a 
father till she comes of age. Of course she 
will be taught to hate me ; she will be brought 
up to it. Lady Byron is conscious of all this, 
and is afraid that I shall some day carry off 
her daughter by stealth or force. I might 
claim her of the Chancellor, without having 
recourse to either one or the other ; but I had 
rather be unhappy myself than make her 
mother so; probably I shall never see her 
again." Here he opened his writing-desk 
and showed Captain Medwin some hair, which 
he told him was his child's. 

Several years ago. Lord Byron presented 
his friend, Mr. Thomas Moore, with his 
" Memoirs," written by himself, with an un- 
derstanding that they were not to be publish- 
ed until after his death. Mr. Moore, with the 
consent, and at the desire of Lord Byron, sold 
the manuscript to Mr. Murray, the bookseller, 
for the sum of two thousand guineas. The 
following statement by Mr. Moore, will how- 
ever show its fate : " Without entering into 
the respective claims of Mr. Murray and my- 
self to the property in these memoirs, "(a 
question which now that they are destroyed 
can be but of little moment to any one), it is 
sufficient to say, that, believing the manuscript 
still to be mine, I placed it at the disposal of 
Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. Leigh, with the sole 
reservation of a protest against its total de 
struction ; at least, without previous perusal 
and consultation among the parties. The ma- 
jority of the persons present disagreed witli 
this opinion, and it was the only point upon 
which there did exist any difierence between 
us. The manuscript was accordingly torn 
and burnt before our eyes, and I immediately 
paid to Mr. Murray, in the presence of the 
gentlemen assembled, two thousand guineas, 
with interest, etc., being the amount of what 
I owed him upon the security of my bond, 
and for which I now stand indebted to my 
publishers, Messrs. Longman and Co. 

" Since then, the family of Lord Byron have, 
in a manner highly honourable to themselves, 
proposed an arrangement, by which the sum 
thus paid to Mr. Murray might be reimbur? 
ed me ; but from feelings and consideration.-., 
which it is unnecessary here to explain, I have 
respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their 
offer." 

One evening, after a dinner-party at the 
Lanfranchi palace, his lordship wrote the fol- 
lowing drinking-song : 

" Fill the goblet again, for I never before 

Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its cojo > 



XXVlll 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



Let us drink — who would not ? since, through Ufe's 

varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

' 1 have tried, in its turn, all that life can supply ; 
1 have bask'd in the beams of a dark roUing eye ; 
I have loved— who has not ? but what tongue will 

declare 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

" In the daj's of our youth, when the heart 's in its 

spring. 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends — who has not ? but what tongue will 

avow 
That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou ? 

" The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts mth the sun-beam, thou never canst 

change ; 
Thou grow'st old — who does not ? but on earth what 

appears. 
Whose virtues, like thine, but increase with our years. 

" Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
We are jealous — who 's not ? thou hast no such alloy, 
For the more that enjoy thee, tlie more they enjoy. 

" Wlien the season of youth and its jollity 's past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last. 
Then we find — who does not ? in the flow of the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

" When the box of Pandora was opened on earth. 
And Memory's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left — was she not ? but the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bhss. 

" Long hfe to the grape ! and when summer is flown. 
The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. 
We must die — who does not ? may our sins be forgiven ! 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven." 

Before we close the details of what may be 
termed Lord Byron's poetical life — before we 
enter on the painfully interesting^ particulars 
connected with the last and noblest part he 
pel formed in his brilliant but brief career — 
we beg leave to introduce the following sum- 
m.ary of his character : 

There seems to have been something of a 
magical antidote in Lord Byron's genius to 
the strange propensities to evil arising both 
from his natural passions and temper, and the 
accidental unpropitious circumstances of his 
life. In no man were good and evil mingled 
in such strange intimacy, and in such strange 
proportions. His passions were extraordina- 
rily violent and fierce ; and his temper, un- 
easy, bitter, and capricious. His pride was 
deep and gloomy, and his ambition ardent and 
uncontrollable. AB. these were exactly such 
as the fortuitous position of his infancy, boy- 
hood, and first manhood, tended to aggravate 
by discouragements, crosses, and mortifica- 
tions. He was directly and immediately sprung 
from a stock of old nobility, of a historic 
oame, of venerable antiquity. All his alli- 
ances, mcludin^ his father, had moved in high 
society. But this gay father died, improvident 
or reckless of the future, and left him to waste 
his childhood in poverty and dereliction, in 
.1)0 remote town of Aberdeen, among the few 
iiaternal relations who yet would not utterly 
ahandou his mother's shipwrecked fortunes. 



At the age of six years he became presump- 
tive heir to the family peerage, and at the ag(» 
of ten the peerage devolved on him. He then 
was sent to the public school of HarroAv ; but 
neither his person, his acquired habits, his 
scholarship, nor his temper, fitted him for this 
strange arena. A peer, not immediately is- 
suing from the fashionable circles, and not as 
rich as foolish boys suppose a peer ought to 
be, must have a wonderful tact of society, and 
a managing, bending, intriguing temper, to 
play his part with eclat, or with comfort, or 
even without degradation. All the treatment 
which Lord Byron now received, confirmed 
the bitterness of a disposition and feelings 
naturally sour, and already augmented by 
chilling sohtude, or an uncongenial sphere of 
society. 

To a mind endowed with intense sensibility 
and unextinguishable ambition, these circum- 
stances operated in cherishing melancholy, 
and even misanthropy. They bred an intract- 
abihty to the light humours, the heartless 
cheerfulness, andall the artillery of unthink- 
ing emptiness by which the energies of the 
bosom are damped and broken. There were 
implanted within him the seeds of profound 
reflection and emotion, which grew in him to 
such strength, that the tameness, the petty 
passions, and frivolous desires of mankind in 
their ordinary intercourses of pleasure and 
dissipation, could never long retain him in 
their chains without weariness and disgust, 
even when they courted, dandled, flattered, 
and admired him. He was unskilled in their 
pitiful accomplishments, and disdained the 
trifling aims of their vanity, and the tests of 
excellence by which they were actuated, and 
by which they judged. He never, therefore, 
enjoyed their blandishments, and, ere long, 
broke like a giant from their bonds. 

There can be no doubt, that disappoint- 
m.ents, working on a sombre temper, and the 
consequent melancholy and sensitiveness, aid- 
ing, and aided by, the spells of the muse, were 
Lord Byron's preserv^atives ; at least, that they 
produced redeeming splendours, and moments 
of pure and untainted intellect, and exalting 
ebullitions of grand or tender sentiment, or 
noble passion, which, by fits at least, if not 
always, adorned his compositions, and will for 
ever electrify and elevate his readers. 

Had Lord'Bj^ron succeeded in the ordinary 
way to his peerage, accompanied by the usuai 
circumstances of prosperity and ease. — had 
nothing occurred capable of stimulating to 
strong personal exertions, the mighty seeds 
within him had probably been worse than 
neutral — they had worked to unqualified mis- 
chief! In maany cases, this is not the effect of 
prosperity ; but Lord Byron's qualities were 
of a very peculiar cast, as well as intense and 
unrivalled in degree. 

"When, in the spring of 1816, Lord ByroD 
quitted England, to return to it no more, he 
had a dark", perilous, and appalhng prospeci 
before him. The chances against the due lu- 
ture use of his miraculous and fearful gifts of 
crenius, poisoned and frenzied as they were by 
blighted hopes, and all the evil incident? wh^^l. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXIX 



nad befallen him, y/ere too numerous to be 
calculated without overwhelming dismay ! 
Few persons, of a sensibility a little above the 
common, would have escp.ped the pit of black 
and unmitigated despondence ! But Lord By- 
ron's elasticity of mind recovered itself, and 
soon rose to far higher conceptions and per- 
formances than before. He passed the sum- 
mer upon the banks of the lake of Geneva ! 
With what enthusiasm he enjoyed, and with 
what contemplations he dwelt among its scene- 
ry, his own poetry soon exhibited to the world ! 
He has been censured for his peculiarities, 
his unsocial life, and his disregard of the habits, 
the decorums, and the civilities of the world, 
and of the rank to which he belonged. He 
might have pleaded, that the world rejected 
him, and he the world ; but the charge is idle 
in itself, admitting it to have originated with 
his own will. A man has a right to live in 
solitude, if he chooses it; and, above all, he 
who gives such fruits of his solitude ! 

In the autumn of 1822, Lord Byron quitted 
Pisa, and went to Genoa, where he remained 
throughout the winter. A letter written by 
his lordship, while at Genoa, is singularly 
honourable to him, and is the more entitled to 
notice, as it tends to diminish the credibility 
of an assertion made since his death, that he 
could bear no rival in fame, but instantly be- 
came animated with a bitter jealousy and ha- 
tred of any person who attracted the public 
attention from himself. If there be a living 
being towards whom, according to that state- 
ment. Lord Byron would have experienced 
such a sentiment,, it must be the presumed 
aiithor of " Waverley." And yet, in a letter 
to Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 1823, the 
following are the just and liberal expressions 
used by Lord Byron, in adverting to a pam- 
phlet which had been recently published by 
Monsieur Beyle : 

" There is one part of your observations in 
the pamphlet which I shall venture to remark 
upon : — it regards Walter Scott. You say that 
his character is little worthy of enthusiasm,' 
at the same time that you mention his produc- 
tions in the manner they deserve. I have 
known Walter Scott long and well, and in 
occasional situations which call forth the real 
character, and I can assure you that his char- 
acter is worthy of admiration ; — that, of all 
men, he is the most open, the most honour- 
able, the most amiable. With his politics I 
have nothing to do : they differ from mine, 
which renders it difficult for me to speak of 
them. But he is perfectly sincere in them, and 
sincerity may be humble, but she cannot be 
servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct or 
soften that passage. You may, perhaps, at- 
tribute this officiousness of mine to a false 
affectation of candour, as I happen to be a 
writer also. Attribute it to what motive you 
please, but believe the truth. I say that Wal- 
ter Scott is as nearly a thorough good man as 
man can be, because I know it by experience 
10 be the case." 

The motives which ultimately induced Lord 
Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, 
fe.vTiggling for emancipation, are sufficien% 
c 2 



obvious. It was in Greece that his high po 
etical faculties had been first fully developed. 
Greece, a land of the most venerable and il 
lustrious history of peculiarly grand and 
beautiful scenery, inhabited by various race«i 
of the most wild and picturesque manners, 
was to him the land of excitement, — never- 
cloying, never-wearying, never-changing ex- 
citement. It was necessarily the chosen and 
favourite spot of a man of powerful and orig 
inal intellect, of quick and sensible feelings, 
of a restless and untameable spirit, of various 
information, and who, above all, was satiated 
with common enjoyments, and disgusted with 
what appeared to him to be the formality, hy- 
pocrisy, and sameness of daily life. Dwelling 
upon that country, as it is clear from all Lord 
Byron's writings he did, with the fondest so- 
licitude, and being, as he was well known to 
be, an ardent, though, perhaps, not a very sys- 
tematic lover of freedom, he could be no un- 
concerned spectator of its recent revolution : 
and as soon as it seemed to him that his pres- 
ence might be useful, he prepared to visit 
once more the shores of Greece. It is not 
improbable, also, that he had become ambi- 
tious of a name as distinguished for deeds as 
it was already by his writings. A glorious and 
novel career apparently presented itself, and 
he determined to try the event. 

Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and ar- 
rived in Cephalonia in the early part of Au- 
gust, 1823, attended by a suite of six or seven 
friends, in an English vessel, (the Hercules 
Captain Scott), which he had chartered for 
the express purpose of taking him to Greece. 
His lordship had never seen any of the vol- 
canic mountains, and for this purpose the ves 
sel deviated from its regular course, in order 
to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay off that 
place a whole night, in the hopes of witness- 
ing the usual phenomena, but, for the first time 
within the m.emory of man, the volcano emit- 
ted no fire. The disappointed poet was obliged 
to proceed, in no good humour with the fabled 
forge of Vulcan. 

Greece, though with a fair prospect of ulti- 
mate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled 
state. The third campaign had commenced, 
with several instances of distinguished suc- 
cess — her arms were every where victorious, 
but her councils were distracted. Western 
Greece was in a critical situation, and although 
the heroic Marco Botzaris had not fallen in 
vain, yet the glorious enterprise in which he 
perished, only checked, and did not prevent 
the advance of the Turks towards Anatolica 
and Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy 
of the best days of Greece, hailed with trans 
port Lord Byron's arrival in that country, and 
his last act, before proceeding to the attack, 
in which he fell, was to write a warm invita- 
tion for his lordship to come to Missolonghi. 
In his letter, which he addressed to a friend at 
Missolonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost the 
first proceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, 
which was the arming and provisionmg of 
forty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the de- 
fence of Missolonghi. After the battle. Lord 
Byron transmitted bandages and medicines 



KXX 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



of which he had brought a large store from 
Italy, and pecuniary succour to those who had 
been wounded. He had already made a very 
generous offer to the government. He says, 
i?? a letter, '" I affered^to advance a thousand 
dollars a month, for the succour of Misso- 
longhi, and the Suliotes under Botzaris (since 
killed) ; but the government have answered 

me. through of this island, that they wish 

to confer with me previously, which is, in fact, 
saying they wish me to spend my money in 
some other direction. I will take care that it 
is for the public cause, otherwise I will not 
advance a para. The opposition say they 
want to cajole me, and the party in power say 
the others wish to seduce me ; so, between the 
two, I have a difficult part to play : however, 
I will have nothing to do with the factions, 
unless to reconcile them, if possible." 

Lord Byron established himself for some 
time at the small village of Metaxata, in 
Cephalonia, and despatched two friends, Mr. 
Trelawney and Mr. Hamilton Browne, with 
a letter to the Greek government, in order to 
collect intelligence as to the real state of 
things. His lordship's generosity was almost 
daily exercised in his ncAv neighbourhood. He 
provided for many Italian families in distress, 
and even indulged the people of the country 
in paying for the religious ceremonies which 
they deemed essential to their success. 

In the meanwhile. Lord Byron's friends 
proceeded to Tripolitza, and found Coloco- 
troni (the enemy of Mavrocordato, who had 
been compelled to flee from the presidency) 
in great power : his palace was tilled with 
armed men, like the castle of some ancient 
feudal chief, and a good idea of his character 
maybe formed from the language he held. He 
declared that he had told Mavrocordato, that 
unless he desisted from his intrigues, he would 
put him on an ass and whip him out of the 
Morea, and that he had only been withheld 
from doing so by the representation of his 
friends, who had said that it would injure the 
cause. 

They next proceeded to Salamis, where the 
congress was sitting, and Mr. Trelawney 
agreed to accompany Odysseus, a brave moun- 
tain chief, into Negropont. At this time the 
Greeks were preparing for many active en- 
terprises. Marco Botzaris' brother, with his 
Suliotes and Mavrocordato, were to take 
charge of Missolonghi, which, at that time, 
(October, 1823), was in a very critical state, 
being blockaded both by land and sea. " There 
have been," says Mr. Trelawney, "thirty bat- 
tles fought and won by the late Marco Bot- 
zaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who 
are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens 
will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut. 
A few thousand dollars would provide ships 
lo relieve it ; a portion of this sum is raised — 
and I would coin my heart to save this key of 
Greece !" A report like this was sufficient to 
show the point where succour was most need- 
ed, and Lord Byron's determination to relieve 
Missolonghi, was still more decidedly con- 
firmed by a letter, which he received from 
Mavrocordato 



Mavrocordato was at this time endeavour 
ing to collect a fleet for the relief of Misso- 
longhi, and Lord Byron generously offered to 
advance four hundred thousand piastres (about 
12,000/.) to pay for fitting it out. In a letter in 
which he announced this his noble intention, 
he alluded to the dissensions m Greece, and 
stated, that if these continued, all hope of a 
loan in England, or of assistance, or even good 
wishes from abroad, would be at an end. 

" I must frankly confess," he says in his 
letter, " that unless union and order are con- 
firmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and 
all the assistance which the Greeks could ex- 
pect from abroad, an assistance which might 
be neither trifling nor worthless, will be sus- 
pended or destroyed ; and, what is worse, the 
great powers of Europe, of whom no one was 
an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to 
favour her in consenting to the establishment 
of an independent power, will be persuaded 
that the Greeks are unable to govern them- 
selves, and will, perhaps, themselves under- 
take to arrange J'our disorders in such a way 
as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, 
and that are indulged by your friends. 

" And allow me to add once for all, I desire 
the well-being of Greece, and nothing else ; 
I will do all I can to seciire it; but I cannot 
consent — I never will consent to the English 
public, or Enghsh individuals being deceived 
as to the real state of Greek affairs. The 
rest, gentlemen, depends on you; you have 
fought gloriously; act honourably towards 
5^our fellow-citizens, and towards the world, 
and then it will no more be said, as has been 
repeated for two thousand years, with the Ro- 
man historian, that Philopcemen was the last 
of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself (and 
it is difficult to guard against it in so difficult 
a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with 
the patriot Greek in peace, after you have 
exterminated him in war." 

The dissensions among the Greek chiefs 
evidently gave great pain to Lord Byron, 
w^hose sensibility was keenly affected by the 
slightest circumstance which he considered 
likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. 
" For my part," he observes, in another of hi? 
letters, " I will stick by the cause, while a 
plank remains which can be honourably clung 
to ; if I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' con- 
duct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier 
Mussulmans." In a letter to his banker at 
Cephalonia, he says : " I hope things here will 
go well, some time or other ; I will stick by 
the cause as long as a cause exists." 

His playful humour sometimes broke ou^. 
amidst the deep anxiety he felt for the suc- 
cess of the Greeks. He ridiculed, with great 
pleasantry, some of the supplies which had 
Ijeen sent out from England by the Greets 
committee. In one of his letters, also, after 
alluding to his having advanced 4,000/., anc 
expecting to be called on for 4,000/. more, he 
says: "How can I refuse, if they (the Greeks) 
Avill fight, and especially if I should happen 
to be in their company ? I therefore request 
and require that you should apprise my trusty 
and trustworthy trustee and banker, an^ 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXXi 



cro^yn and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kinnaird 
the honourable, that he prepare all moneys of 
mine, including the purchase-money of Roch- 
dale manor, and mine income for the year A. 
D. 1824, to answer and anticipate any orders 
or drafts of mine, for the good cause, in good 
and lawful money of Great Britain, etc. etc. 
etc. May you liVe a thousand years ! which 
is nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than 
the Spanish Cortes constitution." 

All being ready, two Ionian vessels were 
ordered, and, embarking his horses and ef- 
fects. Lord Byron sailed from Argostoli on the 
29th of December. At Zante,''his lordship 
took a considerable quantity of specie on 
board, and proceeded towards JMissolonghi. 
Two accidents occurred in this short passage. 
Count Gamba, who had accompanied his lord- 
ship from Leghorn, had been charged with 
the vessel in w^hich the horses and part of the 
money w^ere embarked. When off Chiarenza, 
a point which lies between Zante and the 
place of their destination, they were surprised 
at daylight on finding themselves under the 
boAvs of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, 
to the activity displayed on board Lord By- 
ron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she es- 
caped, while the second was fired at, brought 
to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamba 
and his companions, being taken before YusufF 
Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of 
some unfortunate men whom that sanguinary 
chief had sacrificed the preceding year at 
Previsa, and their fears would most prob 
ably have been realized, had it not been for 
the presence of mind displayed by the count 
who, assuming an air of hauteur and indiffer- 
ence-accused the captain of the frigate of a 
scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at 
and detaining a vessel under English colours, 
and concluded by informing Yusuff, that he 
might expect the vengeance of the British 
government, in thus interrupting a nobleman 
who was merely on his travels, and bound to 
Calamos. The Turkish chief, on recognising 
in the master of the vessel a person who had 
snved his life in the Black Sea fifteen years 
before, not only consented to the vessel's re- 
lease, but treated the whole of the passengers 
with the utmost attention, and even urged 
thcim to take a day's shooting in the neighbour- 
hood. 

Owing to contrary winds, Lord Byron's ves- 
sel was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, 
a cluster of rocks within a few miles of Mis- 
solonghi. While detained here, he was in 
considerable danger of being captured by 
the Turks. 

Lord Byron was received at Missolonghi 
with enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No 
mark of honour or welcome which the Greeks 
could devise was omitted. The ships anchored 
off the fortress, fired a salute as he passed. 
Prince Mavrocordato, and all the authorities, 
with the troops and the population, met him 
an his landing, and accompanied him to the 
house which had been prepared for him, amidst 
the shouts of the multitude, and the discharge 
of cannon. 
One of the first objects to which he turned 



his attention, was to mitigate the ferocity with 
which the war had been carried on. The very 
day of his lordship's arrival was signalized by 
his rescuing a Turk, who had fallen into the 
liands of some Greek sailors. The individual 
thus saved, having been clothed by his orders, 
was kept in the'house until an opportunity 
occurred of sending him to Patras. Nor had 
his lordship been long at Missolonghi, before 
an opportunity presented itself for showing 
his sense of Yusuff Pacha's moderation in re- 
leasing Count Gamba. Hearing that there 
were four Turkish prisoners in the town, he 
requested that they might be placed in his 
hands. This being immediately granted, he 
sent them to Patras, with a letter addressed 
to the Turkish chief, expressing his hope that 
the prisoners thenceforward taken on both 
sides, would be treated with humanity. This 
act was followed by another equally praise- 
worthy, which proved how anxious Lord By- 
ron felt to give a new turn to the system of 
warfare hitherto pursued. A Greet cruiser 
having captured a Turkish boat, in which 
there was a number of passengers, chiefly 
women and children, they were also placed 
in the hands of Lord Byron, at his particular 
request; upouAvhich a vessel was immediately 
hired, and the whole of them, to the number 
of tw^enty-four, were sent to Previ?a, provided 
with every requisite for their comfort during 
the passage. The Turkish governor of Pre- 
visa thanked his lordship, and assured him, 
that hcAvould take care equal attention shoulo 
be in future shown to the Greeks who might 
become prisoners. 

Another grand object with Lord Byron, and 
one which he never ceased to forward with 
the most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile 
the quarrels of the native chiefs, to make them 
friendly and coiifiding towards one another, 
and submissive to the orders of the govern- 
micnt. He had neither time nor opportunity 
to carry this point to any great extent : much 
good was, however, done. 

Lord Byron landed at IMissolonghi animated 
with military ardour. After paying the fleet, 
which, indeed, had only come out^under the 
expectation of receiving its arrears from the 
loan which he prom.ised to make to the pro- 
visional government, he set about forming a 
brigade of Suliotes. Five hundred of these, 
the bravest and most resolute of the soldiers 
of Greece, were taken into his pay on the 1st 
of January, 1824. An expedition against Le- 
panto was proposed, of which the command 
Avas given to Lord Byron. This expedition, 
howe'ver, had to experience delay and disap- 
pointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that they 
had found a patron whose wealth was inex- 
haustible, and whose generosity was bound 
less, determined to make the most of the oc 
casion, and proceeded to the most extravagant 
demands on tbair leader for arrears, and un- 
der other pretences. These mountaineers 
untameable in the field, and unmanageable lu 
a toAvn, were, at this moment, peculiarly dis- 
posed to be obstinate, riotous, and mercenary 
They had been chiefly instrumental in pre 
sening Missolonghi, when besieged the pre 



K.XK11 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



nous autumn by the Turks ; had been driven 
ft )in their abodes ; and the whole of their 
f.iiniUes were, at this time, in the town, des- 
titute of either home or sufficient supplies. 
Of turbulent and reckless character, they 
kept the place in awe ; and Mavrocordato 
having, unlike the other captains, no sol- 
diers of his own, was glad to find a body of 
valiant mercenaries, especially if paid for out 
of the funds of another; and, consequently, 
was not disposed to treat them with harshness. 
Within a fortnight after Lord Byron's arrival, 
a burgher refusing to quarter some Suliotes, 
who rudely demanded entrance into his house, 
was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some 
lives were lost. Lord Byron's impatient spirit 
could ill brook the delay of a favourite scheme, 
but he saw, with the utmost chagrm, that the 
state of his troops was such as to render any 
attempt to lead them out at that time imprac- 
ticable. 

The project of proceeding against Lepanto 
being thus suspended, at a moment when Lord 
Byron's enthusiasm was at its height, and when 
he had fully calculated on striking a blow 
which could not fail to be of the utmost ser- 
vice to the Greek cause, the unlooked-for dis- 
appointment preyed on his spirits, and pro- 
duced a degree of irritability, which, if it was 
not the sole cause, contributed greatly to a 
severe fit of epilepsy, with which he was at- 
tacked en the 15th of February. His lordship 
was sitting in the apartment of Colonel Stan- 
hope, talking in a jocular manner with Mr. 
Parry, the engineer, when it was observed, 
from occasional and rapid changes in his coun- 
tenance, that he was suffering under some 
strong emotion. On a sudden he complained 
of a weakness in one of his legs, and rose, but 
finding himself unable to walk, he cried out 
for assistance. He then fell into a state of 
nervous and convulsive agitation, and was 
placed on a bed. For some minutes his coun- 
tenance was much distorted. He however 
quickly recovered his senses, his speech re- 
turned, and he soon appeared perfectly well, 
although enfeebled and exhausted by the vio- 
lence of the struggle. During the fit, he be- 
haved with his usual extraordinary firmness, 
and his efforts in contending with, and at- 
tempting to master, the disease, are described 
as gigantic. In the course of the month, the 
attack was repeated four times ; the violence 
of the disorder, at length, yielded to the reme- 
dies which his physicians advised, such as 
bleeding, cold bathmg, perfect relaxation of 
mind, etc., and he gradually recovered. An 
accident, however, happened a few days after 
bis first illness, which was ill calculated to aid 
the efforts of his medical advisers. A Suliote, 
accompanied by another man, and the late 
Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked into the 
Seraglio, a place which, before Lord Byron's 
arrival, had been used as a sort of fortress and 
barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they 
were ejected with great difficulty for the re- 
ception of the committee-stores, and for the 
occupation of the engineers, who required it 
for a laboratory. The sentinel on guard or- 
dered the Suliote to retire, which being a spe- 



cies of motion to which Suliotes are not ac 
customed, the man carelessly advanced; upon 
wliich the serjeant of the guard (a German) 
demanded his business, and receiving no sat- 
isfactory answer, pushed him back. These 
wild warriors, who will dream for years of a 
blow if revenge is out of their power, are not 
slow to resent even a push. The Suliote struck 
again, the serjeant and he closed and strug- 
gled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from his 
belt ; the serjeant wrenched it out of his hand, 
and blew the powder out of the pan. At this 
moment, Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the 
fray, came up, and ordered the man to be ta- 
ken to the guard-room. The Suliote was then 
disposed to depart, and would have done so it 
the serjeant would have permitted him. Un- 
fortunately, Captain Sass did not confine him- 
self to merely giving the order for his arrest; 
for when the Suliote struggled to get away, 
Captain Sass drew his sword, and struck him 
with the flat part of it ; whereupon the en- 
raged Greek flew upon him, with a pistol in 
one hand and the sabre in the other, and at 
the same moment nearly cut off the Captain's 
right arm, and shot him through the head. 
Captain Sass, who was remarkable for his 
mild and courageous character, expired in a 
few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of 
distinguished bravery. This was a serious af- 
fair, and great apprehensions were entertained 
that it would not end here. The Suliotes re- 
fused to surrender the man to justice, alle^^ing 
that he had been struck, which, in Suliote 
law, justifies all the consequences which may 
follow. 

In a letter written a few days after Lord 
Byron's first attack, to a friend in Zante, he 
speaks of himself as rapidly recovering. ^' 1 
am a good deal better," he observes, " though 
of course weakly. The leeches took too much 
blood from my temples the day after, and there 
was some difficulty in stopping it; but I have 
been up daily, and out in boats or on horse- 
back. To-day I have taken a warm bath, 
and live as temperately as well can be^ with- 
out any liquid but water, and without any ani- 
mal food." After adverting to some other 
subjects, the letter thus concludes : " Matters 
are here a little embroiled with the Suliotes, 
foreigners, etc. ; but I still hope better things, 
and will stand by the cause as long as my 
health and circumstances will permit me to 
be supposed useful." 

Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement 
in health, his friends felt, from the first, that 
he ought to try a change of air. Missolonghi 
is a flat, marshy, and pestilential place, and, 
except for purposes of utility, never would 
have been selected for his residence. A gen- 
tleman of Zante wrote to him early in March, 
to induce him to return to that island for a 
time. To his letter the following answer was 
received : — 

" I am extremely obliged by your offer of 
your country-house, as for all other kindness, 
in case my health should require my removal; 
but I cannot quit Greece while there is a 
chance of my being of (even supposed) utility 
There is a stake worth millions such as I am 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXXHi 



aaJ while 1 can stand at all, I must stand by 
the cause. While I say this, I am aware of 
the difficulties, and dissensions, and defects of 
the Greeks themselves : but allowance must 
be made for them by all reasonable people." 
It may be well imagined, after so severe a 
fit of illness, and that in a great measure 
brought on by the conduct of the troops he 
had taken into his pay, and treated with the 
utmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no 
humour to pursue his scheme against Le- 

Eanto, even supposing that his state of health 
ad been such as to bear the fatigue of a cam- 
paign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, 
showed some signs of repentance, and offered 
to place themselves at his lordship's disposal. 
IBut still they had an objection to the nature 
of the service : " they would not fight against 
stone walls !" It is not surprising that the ex- 
pedition to Lepanto was no longer thought of. 
In conformity with our plan, we here add a 
selection of anecdotes, etc. connected with 
Lord Byron's residence at Missolonghi. They 
are principally taken from Captain Parry's 
"Last Days of Lord Byron;" a work which 
seems to us, from its plain and unvarnished 
6t)'le, to bear the stamp and impress of truth. 
In speaking of the Greek Committee one 
day, his lordship said — " I conceive that I 
have been already grossly ill-treated by the 
committee. In Italy, Mr. Blaquiere, their 
agent, informed me that every requisite sup- 
ply would be forwarded with all despatch. I 
was disposed to come to Greece, but I has- 
tened my departure in consequence of earnest 
solicitations. No time was to be lost, I was 
told, and Mr. Blaquiere, instead of waiting 
on me at his return from Greece, left a paltry 
note, which gave me no information what- 
ever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail 
to mention my surprise at his conduct; but it 
has been all of a-piece. I wish the acting 
committee had had some of the trouble which 
has fallen on me since my arrival here ; they 
wonld have been more prompt in their pro- 
ceedings, and would have known better what 
the country stood in need of. They would not 
have delayed the supplies a day, nor have sent 
out German officers, poor fellows, to starve at 
Missolonghi, but for my assistance. I am a 
plain man, and cannot comprehend the use 
of printing-presses to a people who do not 
read. Here the committee have sent supplies 
of maps, I suppose, that I may teach the young 
mountaineers geography. Here are bugle- 
horns, without buglemen, and it is a chance 
if we can find any body in Greece to blow 
them. Books are sent to a people who want 
guns : they ask for a sword, and the commit- 
tee give them the lever of a printing-press 
Heavens ! one would think the committee 
meant to inculcate patience and submission, 
and to condemn resistance. Some materials 
for constructing fortifications they have sent 
but they have chosen their people so ill, that 
the work is deserted, and not one para have 
they sent to procure other labourers. Their 
secretary, Mr. Bowring, was disposed, I be- 
lieve, to claim the privilege of an acquaint 
ance with me. He wrote me a long letter 
5 



about the classic land of freedom, the birth- 
place of the arts, the cradle of genius, the 
habitation of the gods, the heaven of poets, 
and a great many such fine things. I was 
obliged to answer him, and I scrawled some 
nonsense in reply to his nonsense ; but I fancy 
I shall get no more such epistles. When I 
came to the conclusion of the poetry part of 
my letter, I wrote, ' so much for blarney, now 
for business.' I have not since heard in the 
same strain from Mr. Bowring." 

" My future intentions," continued he, " as 
to Greece, may be explained in a few words : 
I will remain here till she is secure against 
the Turks, or till she has fallen under their 
power. All my income shall be spent in her 
service ; but, unless driven by some great ne- 
cessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum 
intended for my sister's children. Whatever 
I can accomplish with my income, and my 
personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done. 
When Greece is secure against external ene- 
mies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their 



government as they like. _ One service more, 
and an eminent service it will be, I think I 
may perform for them. You, Parry, shall 
have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a 
vessel ; the Greeks shall invest me with the 
character of their ambassador or agent ; I will 
go to the United States, and procure that free 
and enlightened government to set the exam- 
ple of recognising the federation of Greece 
as an independent state. This done, England 
must follow the example, and then the fate of 
Greece will be permanently fixed, and she 
will enter into all her rights, as a member o'f 
the great commonwealth of Christian Eu- 
rope." 

' This," observes Captain Parry, in his plain 
and manly manner, " was Lord Byron's hope 
and this was to be his last project in favour of 
Greece. Into it no motive of personal am.bi- 
tion entered, more than that just and proper 
one, the basis of all virtue, and the distin- 
guished characteristic of an honourable mind 
— the hope of gaining the approbation of good 
men. As an author, he had already attained 
the pinnacle of popularity and of fame ; but 
this did not satisfy his noble ambition. He 
hastened to Greece, with a devotion to liberty, 
and a zeal in favour of the oppressed, as pure 
as ever shone in the bosom of a knight in the 
purest days of chivalry, to gain the reputation 
of an unsullied warrior, and of a disinterested 
statesman. He was by her unpaid, but the 
blessings of all Greece, and the high honours 
his own countrymen bestow on his memory 
bearing him in their hearts, prove that he was 
not her unrewarded champion." 

Lord Byron's address was the most affable 
and courteous perhaps ever seen; his man- 
ners, when in a good humour, and desirous of 
bein^ well with his guest, were winning, fas- 
cinating in the extreme, and though bland, 
still spirited, and with an air of frankness and 
generosity — qualities in which he was cer- 
tainly not deficient. He was open to a fault 
— a characteristic probably the result of his 
fearlessness, and independence of the world, 
but so open was he, that his friends wei« 



KXXl V 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



obliged to be upon their guard Avitb him. He 
\yas the worst person in the world to confide 
a secret to ; and if any charge against any 
bodv was mentioned to him, it was probably 
the lirst communication he made to the per- 
son ID question. He hated scandal and tit- 
tle-tattle—loved the manly straight-forward 
course : he would harbour no doubts, and 
never live with another with suspicions in his 
jjosom — out came the accusation, and he called 
upon the individual to clear, or be ashamed 
of, himself. He detested a lie— nothing en- 
raged him so much : he was by temperament 
and education excessively irritable, and a lie 
completely unchained him— his indignation 
knew no bounds. He had considerable tact 
in detecting untruth ; he would smell it out 
almost instmctively ; he avoided the timid 
driveller, and generally chose his companions 
among the lovers and practisers of sincerity 
and candour. A man tells a falsehood and 
conceals the truth, because he is afraid that 
the declaration of th3 thing as it is will hurt 
liim. Lord Byron was above all fear of this 
sort : he flinched from telling no one what he 
thoucfht to his face ; from his infancy he had 
been'' afraid of no one. Falsehood is not the 
vice of the powerful : the Greek slave lies, 
the Turkish tyrant is remarkable for his ad- 
herence to truth. The anecdote that follows, 
told bv Parry, is highly characteristic : — 

*' When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape 
Papa, blockading Missolonghi, I was one day 
ordered by Lord^Byron to accompany him to 
the mouth of the harbour to inspect the forti- 
fications, in order to make a report on the state 
they were in. He and I were in his own punt, 
a little boat which he had, rowed by a boy ; 
and in a large boat, accompanying us, were 
Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants. As 
I was viewing, on one hand, the Turkish fleet 
attentively, and reflecting on its powers, and 
our means of defence ; and looking, on the 
other, at Prince Mavrocordato and his attend- 
ants, perfectly unconcerned, smoking their 
pipes, and gossiping as if Greece were libe- 
rated and at peace, and Missolonghi in a state 
of complete security, I could not help giving 
vent to a feeling of contempt and indignation. 
' What is the matter,' said his lordship, ap- 
pearing to be very serious, ' what makes you 
so ancrrv, Parry ?' ' I am not angry,' I replied, 
' my lord, but somewhat indignant. The 
Turks, if they were not the "most stupid 
wretches breathing, might take the fort of 
i^asaladi, bv means of two pinnaces, any night 
they pleased ; they have only to approach it 
with muflied oars; they will not be heard, I 
win answer for their not being seen ; and they 
may storm it in a few minutes. With eight 
gun-boats, properly armed with 24-pounders, 
thev might batter both Missolonghi and Ana- 
toli'ca to the ground. And there sits the old 
.gentlewoman. Prince Mavrocordato and his 
troop, lo whom I applied an epithet I will not 
here repeat, as if they were all perfectly safe. 
They know their powers of defence are in- 
adequate, and they have no means of improv- 
mg them. If 1 were in their place, I should 
ne'iD a fever it the thought of my own inca- 



pacity and ignorance, and I should burn witb 
impatience to attempt the desrruction of those 
stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks and 
Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbe- 
cility, of each other.' I had scarcely explain- 
ed myself fully, when his lordship ordered our 
boat to be placed alongside the other, and ac- 
tually related our whole conversation to the 
prince. In doing it, however, he took on him- 
self the task of pacifying both the prince and 
me, and though I was at^first very angry, and 
the prince, I believe, very much annoyed, he 
succeeded. Mavrocordato afterwards showed 
no dissatisfaction with me, and I prized Lord 
Byron's regard too much, to remain long dis- 
pleased with a proceeding which was only an 
unpleasant manner of reproving us both." 

" On cne occasion (which we before slightly 
alluded to), he had saved twentj-four Turkish 
women and children from slavery, and all its 
accompanying horrors. I was summoned to 
attend Ijim, and receive his orders, that every 
thing should be done which might contribute 
to their comfort. He was seated on a cushion 
at the upper end of the room, the women and 
children were standing before him, with their 
eyes fixed steadily on him, and on his right 
hand was his interpreter, vrho w^as extracting 
from the women a narrative of their suffer- 
ings. One of them, apparentl}'' about thirty 
years of age, possessing great vivacity, and 
whose manners and dress, though she was then 
dirty and disfigured, indicated that she was 
superior in rank and condition to her com- 
panions, was spokeswoman for the whole. I 
admired the good order the others preserved, 
never interfering with the explanation, or in- 
terrupting the single speaker. I also admired 
the rapid manner in which the interpreter ex- 
plained every thing they said, so as to make 
it almost appear that there was but one 
speaker. — After a short time, it was evident 
that what Lord Byron was hearing, affected 
his feelings — his countenance changed, his 
colour went and came, and I thought he v/as 
ready to weep. But he had, on all occasions, 
a ready and peculiar knack in turning con- 
versation from any disagreeable or unpleasant 
subject ; and he had recourse to this expedi- 
ent. He rose up suddenly, and turning round 
on his heel, as was his wont, he said something 
quickly to his interpreter, who immediately 
repeated it to the women. All eyes were in- 
stantly fixed on me, and one of the party, a 
young and beautiful woman, spoke very 
warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and 
said they might retire. The women all slip- 
ped off their shoes in an instant, and going up 
to his lordship, each in succession, accompa- 
nied by their children, kissed his hand fer- 
vently, invoked, in the Turkish manner, a 
blessing both on his head and heart, and then 
quitted the room. This was too much for Lord 
Byron, and he turned his face away to con- 
ceal his emotion." 

" One of Lord Byron's household had sev- 
eral times involved himself and his master in 
perplexity and trouble, by his unrestrained 
attachment to women. In Greece tliis had 
been very annoying, and induced Lord Byron 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXXV 



to think of a means of curing it. A young 
Suliote of the guard was accordingly dressed 
up hke a woman, and instructed to place him- 
self in the way of the amorous swain. The 
bait took, and after some communication, had 
rather by signs than by words, for the pair did 
not understand each other's language, the 
sham lady was carefully conducted by the gal- 
lant to one of Lord Byron's apartments. Here 
the couple were surprised by an enraged Su- 
liote, a husband provided for the occasion, 
accompanied by half a dozen of his comrades, 
whose presence and threats terrified the poor 
lacquey almost out of his senses. The noise 
of course brought Lord Byron to the spot, to 
laugh at the tricked serving-man, and rescue 
him from the effects of his terror." 

" A few days after the earthquake, which 
took place on the 21st of February, as we 
were all sitting at table in the evening, we 
were suddenly alarmed by a noise and a 
shaking of the house, somewhat similar to 
that which we had experienced when the 
earthquake occurred. Of course all started 
from their places, and there was the same kind 
of confusion as on the former evening, at 
which Byron, who was present, laughed im- 
moderately ; we were re-assured by this, and 
soon learnt that the whole was a method he 
had adopted to sport with our fears." 

'■'■ The regiment, or rather the brigade, we 
formed, can be described only as Byron him- 
self describes it. There was a Greek tailor, 
who had been in the British service in the 
Ionian Islands, where he had married an Ital- 
ian woman. This lady, knowing something 
of the military service, petitioned Lord Byron 
to appoint her husband master-tailor of the 
brigade. The suggestion was useful, and this 
part of her petition was immediately granted 
At the same time, however, she solicited that 
she might be permitted to raise a corps of 
women, to be placed under her orders, to ac- 
company the regiment. She stipulated for 
free quarters and rations for them, but reject- 
ed all claim for pay. They were to be free 
of all incumbrances, and were to wash, sew, 
cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The 
proposition pleased Lord Byron, and, stating 
the matter to me, he said he hoped I should 
have no objection. I had been accustomed 
to see women accompany the English army, 
and I knew that, though sometimes an incum- 
brance, they were, on the whole, more bene- 
ficial than otherwise. In Greece, there were 
many circumstances which would make their 
services extremely valuable, and I gave ray 
consent to the measure. The tailor's wife did 
accordingly recruit a considerable number of 
unincumbered women, of almost all nations, 
bui principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and 
Negresses. ' I was afraid,' said Lord Byron, 
' when I mentioned this matter to you, you 
would be crusty, and oppose it — it is the very 
thing. Let me see, my corps outdoes Fal- 
staff 's : there are English, Germans, French, 
Maltese, Ragusians, Italians, Neapolitans, 
Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, Moreotes, 
and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring up 
tlie reaT-, the tailor's Avife and her troop. Glo- 



rious Apollo ! no general had ever before such 
an army.' " 

" Lord Byron had a black groom with him 
in Greece, an American by birth, to whom he 
was very partial. He always insisted on this 
man's caUing him Massa, whenever he spoke 
to him. On one occasion, the groom met with 
two women of his own complexion, who had 
been slaves to the Turks and liberated, but 
had been left almost to starve when the Greeks 
had risen on their tyrants. Being of the same 
colour was a bond of sympathy between them 
and the groom, and he applied to me to give 
both these women quarters in the Seraglio. I 
granted the apphcation, and mentioned it to 
Lord Byron, who laughed at the gallantry of 
his groom, and ordered that he should be 
brought before him at ten o'clock the next 
day, to answer for his presumption in making 
such an application. At ten o'clock, accord- 
ingly, he attended his master with great trem- 
bling and fear, but stuttered so when he at- 
tempted to speak, that he could not make 
himself understood ; Lord Byron endeavour- 
ing, almost in vain, to preserve his gravity, 
reproved him severely for his presumption. 
Blacky stuttered a thousand excuses, and was 
ready to do any thing to appease his massa's 
anger. His great yellow eyes wide open, he 
trembling from head to foot, his wandering 
and stuttering excuses, his visible dread — all 
tended to provoke laughter; and Lord By- 
ron, fearing his own dignity would be hove 
overboard, told him to hold his tongue, and 
listen to his sentence. I was commanded to 
enter i+ in his memorandum-book, and then 
he pronounced, in a solemn tone of voice, 
while Blacky stood aghast, expecting some 
severe punishment, the following doom : ' My 
determination is, that the children born of 
these black women, of which you may be the 
father, shall be my property, and I will main- 
tain them. What say you ?' ' Go — Go — God 
bless you, massa, may you live great while,' 
stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth to 
tell the good news to the two distressed wo- 
men." 

The luxury of Lord Byron's living at this 
time, may be seen from the following order, 
which he gave his superintendent of the house- 
hold, for the daily expenses of his own table. 
It amounts to no more than one piastre. 

rARAS. 

Bread, a pound and a half 15 

Wine 7 

Fish 16 

Ohves 3 

40 
This was his dinner ; his breakfast consisted 
of a single dish of tea, without milk or sugar. 

The circumstances that attended the death 
<Df this illustrious and noble-minded man, are 
described in the follov/ing plain and simple 
manner, by his faithful valet and constant fol 
lower, Mr. Fletcher: — 

" My master," says Mr. Fletcher, " con 
tinned his usual custom of riding daily, whei 
the weather would permit, until the 9th oi 
April. But on that iU-fatec* day le got yerv 



xxxvl 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



wet ; and on his return home, his lordship 
changed the whole of his dress ; but he had 
been too long in his wet clothes, and the cold, 
of which he had complained more or less ever 
since we left Cephalonia, made this attack be 
more severel}'^ felt. Though rather feverish 
during the night, his lordship slept pretty well, 
but complained in the morning of a pain in 
his bones, and a head-ache : this did not, how- 
ever, prevent him from taking a ride in the 
afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his last. 
On his return, my master said that the saddle 
was not perfectly dry, from being so wet the 
day before, and observed that he thought it 
had made him worse. His lordship was again 
visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorry 
to perceive, on the next morning, that his ill- 
ness appeared to be increasing. He was very 
low, and complained of not having had any 
sleep during the night. His lordship's appe- 
tite was also quite gone. I prepared a little 
arrow-root, of which he took three or four 
spoonfuls, saying it was very good, but he 
could take no more. It was not till the third 
day, the 12th, that I began to be alarmed for 
my master. In all his former colds, he always 
slept well, and was never affected by this slow 
fever. I therefore went to Dr. Bruno and 
Mr. Millingen. the two medical attendants, 
and inquired minutely into every circumstance 
connected with my master's present illness : 
both replied that there was no danger, and I 
might make myself perfectly easy on the sub- 
ject, for all would be well in a few days. This 
was on the 13th. On the following day, I found 
my master in such a state, that I could not 
feel happy without supplicating that he would 
send to Zante for Dr. Thomas. After ex- 
pressing my fears lest his lordship should get 
worse. Tie desired me to consult the doctors, 
which I did, and was told there was no occa- 
sion for calling in any person, as they hoped 
all would be well in a few days. Here I should 
remark, that his lordship repeatedly said, in 
the course of the day, he was sure the doctors 
did not understand his disease : to which I an- 
swered, ' Then, my lord, have other advice 
by all means.' ' They tell me,' said his lord- 
ship, ' that it is only a common cold, which, 
you know, I have had a thousand times.' ' I am 
sure, my lord,' said I, ' that you never had 
one of so serious a nature.' ' I think I never 
had,' Avas his lordship's answer. I repeated 
my supplications that Dr. Thomas _ should be 
sent for, on the 15th, and was again assured 
that my master would be better in two or three 
days. After these confident assurances, I did 
not renew my entreaties until it was too late. 
With respect to the medicines that were given 
to my master, I could not persuade myself 
that those of a strong purgative nature were 
the best adapted for his complaint, concluding 
that, as he had nothing on his stomach, the 
only effect would be to create pain ; indeed, 
this must have been the case with a person in 
perfect health. The whole nourishment taken 
by my master, for the last eight days, consist- 
ed of a small quantity of broth, at two or three 
difforent times, and two spoonfuls of arrow- 
root on the 18th, the day before his death. 



The first time I heard of there being any in- 
tention of bleeding his lordship, was on the 
15th, when it was proposed by Dr. Bruno, but 
objected to at first by my master, who asked 
Mr. Millingen if there was any great reasoL 
for taking blood? The latter replied that u 
might be of service, but added, it might be 
deferred till the next day; and, accordingly. 
my master was bled in the right arm on the 
evening of the 16th, and a pound of blood was 
taken. I observed, at the time, that it had a 
most inflamed appearance. Dr. Bruno now 
began to say, that he had frequently urged my 
master to be bled, but that he always refused. 
A long dispute now arose about the time that 
had been lost, and the necessity of sending 
for medical aid to Zante ; upon which I was 
informed, for the first time, that it would be 
of no use, as my master would be better, or 
no more, before the arrival of Dr. Thomas. 
His lordship continued to get worse, but Dr. 
Bruno said, he thought letting blood again 
would save his life ; and I lost no time in tell- 
ing my master how necessary it was to com- 
ply with the doctor's wishes. To this he re- 
plied, by saying, he feared they knew nothing 
about his disorder; and then, stretching out 
his arm, said, 'Here, take my arm, and do 
whatever you like.' His lordship continued 
to get weaker, and on the 17th he was bled 
twice in the morning, and at two o'clock in 
the afternoon ; the bleeding at both times was 
followed by fainting fits, and he would have 
fallen down more than once, had I not caught 
him in my arms. In order to prevent such an 
accident, I took care not to permit his lord- 
ship to stir without supporting him. On this 
day my master said to me twice, ' I cannot 
sleep, and you well know I have not been 
able to sleep for more than a week ; I know,' 
added his lordship, ' that a man can only be 
a certain time without sleep, and then he must 
go m>ad, without any one being able to save 
him ; and I would ten times sooner shoot my- 
self than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying 
— I am more fit to die than people think !' 

'' I do not, however, believe that his lord- 
ship had any apprehension of his fate till th« 
day after the 18th, when he said, ' I fear you 
and Tita will be ill by sitting continually night 
and day.' I answered, ' We shall never leave 
your lordship till you are better.' As my mas- 
ter had a slight fit of delirium on the 1 6th, I took 
care to remove the pistol and stiletto, which 
had hitherto been kept at his bedside in the 
night. On the 18th, his lordship addressed me 
frequently, and seem.ed to be very much dis- 
satisfied with his medical treatment. I then 
said, ' Do allow me to send for Dr. Thomas?' 
to v/hich he answered, ' Do so, but be quick ; 
I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as 1 
am sure they have mistaken my disease. 
Write yourself, for I know they would not 
like to see other doctors here.' I did not lose 
a moment in obeying my master's orders ; and 
on informing Dr. Bruno and Mr. Millingen 
of it, they said it Avas very right, as they nov/ 
began to be afraid themselves. On returning 
to my master's room, his first words were 
' have you seat?' — ' I have, my lord.' was my 



LIFE OF liORD BYRON 



xxx\ 11 



answer ; upon »vhioh he saiJ, '' you have done 
right, for 1 shuuld like to knoiv what is the 
matter with me.' Although his lordship did 
not appear to think his dissolution was so near, 
I could perceive he was getting weaker every 
hour, and he even began to have occasional 
fits of delirium. He afterwards said, ' I now 
begin to think I am seriously ill, and in case 
I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give 
you several directions, which I hope you will 
be particular in seeing executed.' I answered 
I would, in case such an event came to pass, 
but expressed a hope that he would live many 
years to execute them much better himself 
than 1 could. To this my master replied, ' No, 
it is now nearly over;' and then added, 'I 
must tell you all, without losing a moment !' I 
then said, ' Shall I go, my lord, and fetch pen, 
ink, and paper?' — 'Oh, my God! no; you will 
lose too much time, and I have it not to spare, 
for my time is now short,' said his lordship, 
and immediately after, ' Now, pay attention !' 
His lordship commenced by saying, ' You will 
be provided for.' I begged him, however, to 
proceed with things of more consequence. He 
then continued, ' Oh, my poor dear child ! my 
dear Ada! my God! could I but have seen her ! 
Give her my blessing — and my dear sister 
Augusta, and her children ; and you will go 
to Lady Byron, and say — tell her every thing, 
— you are friends with her.' His lordship 
seemed to be greatly affected at this moment. 
Here my master's voice failed him, so that I 
could only catch a word at intervals ; but he 
kept muttering something very seriously for 
some time, and would often raise his voice, 
and said, ' Fletcher, now if you do not exe- 
cute every order which I have given you, I 
will torment you hereafter, if possible.' Here 
I told his lordship, in a state of the greatest 
perplexity, that I had not understood a word 
of what he said; to which he replied, 'Oh, 
my God ! then all is lost, for it is now too late ! 
Can it be possible you have not understood 
me?' — ' No, my lord,' said I, ' but I pray you 
to try and inform me once more.' ' How can 
I?' rejoined my master, 'it is now too late, 
and all is over!' I said, 'Not our will, but 
God's be done !' — and he answered, ' Yes, not 
mine be done ! — but I will try.' His lordship 
did indeed make several eiForts to speak, but 
could only speak two or three words at a time, 
— such as ' My wife ! my child ! my sister ! — 
you know all — you must say all —you know 
my wishes' — the rest was quite unintelligible. 
A consultation was now held (about noon), 
when it was determined to administer some 
Peruvian bark and wine. My master had 
DOW been nine days without any sustenance 
whatever, except what I have already men- 
tioned. With the exception of a few words, 
which can only interest those to whom they 
were addressed, and which, if required, I shall 
communicate to themselves, it was impossible 
to understand any thing his lordship said after 
taking the bark. He expressed a wish to 
sleep. I at one time asked whether I should 
call Mr. Parry, to which he replied, ' Yes, 
you may call him.' Mr. Parry desired him 
to compose himself. He shed tears, and ap- 



parently sunk into a slumber. Mr. Parry 
went away, expecting to find him refreshed 
on his return, — but it was the commencement 
of the lethargy preceding his death. The last 
words I heard my master utter, were at six 
o'clock on the evening of the 18th, when he 
said, ' I must sleep now ;' upon which he laid 
down, never to rise again! — for he did not 
move hand or ^ot during the following twen- 
ty-four hours. His lordship appeared, how- 
ever, to be in a state of suffocation at intervals, 
and had a frequent rattling in the throat ; on 
these occasions, I called Tita to assist me in 
raising his head, and I thought he seerned to 
get quite stiff. The rattling and choking in 
the throat took place every half-hour, and we 
continued to raise his head whenever the fit 
came on, till six o'clock in the evening of the 
19th, when I saw my master open his eyes and 
then shut them, but without showing any symp- 
tom of pain, or moving hand or foot. 'Oh! 
my God !' I exclaimed, ' I fear his lordship is 
gone !' the doctors then felt his pulse, and said, 
' You are right — he is gone I' " 

It would be vain to attempt a description 
of the universal sorrow that ensued at Misso- 
longhi. Not only Mavrocordato and his im- 
mediate circle, but the whole city and all its 
inhabitants were, as it seemed, stunned by this 
blow ; it had been so sudden, so unexpected. 
His illness, indeed, had been known, and for 
the last three days none of his friends could 
walk in the streets, without anxious inquiries 
from every one, of " How is my lord ?" 

On the day of this melancholy event. Prince 
Mavrocordato issued a proclamation expres- 
sive of the deep and unfeigned grief felt by all 
classes, and ordering every public demonstra- 
tion of respect and sorrow to be paid to the 
memory of the illustrious deceased, by firing 
minute-guns, closing all the public offices ^nd 
shops, suspending the usual Easter festivities, 
and by a general mourning, and funeral pray- 
ers in all the churches, ft was resolved that 
the body should be embalmed, and after the 
suitable funeral honours had been performed, 
should be embarked for Zante, — thence to be 
conveyed to England. Accordingly the med- 
ical men opened the body and embalmed it, and 
having enclosed the heart, and brain, and in- 
testines in separate vessels, they placed it in 
a chest lined with tin, as there were no means 
of procuring a leaden coffin capable of hold- 
ing the spirits necessary for its preservation 
on the voyage. Dr. Bruno drew up an ac- 
count of the examination of the body, by 
which it appeared his lordship's death had 
been caused by an inflammatory fever. Dr. 
Meyer, a Swiss physician, who was present, 
and had accidentally seen Madame de Stael 
after her death, stated, _ that the formation or 
the brain in both these illustrious persons was 
extremely similar, but that Lord Byron had 
a much greater quantity. 

On the 22d of April, 1824, in the midst of 
his own brigade, of the troops of the govern 
ment, and of the whole population, on the 
shoulders of the offxers of his corps, relieved 
occasionally by other Greeks, the most pre- 
cious portion of his honoured ren.ains )ver* 



3LXXV111 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



carried to the church, where lie the bodies of 
Marco Botzaris and of General Normann. 
The)"e they were laid down: the coffin was a 
rude, ill-constructed chest of wood ; a black 
mantle served for a pall, and over it were 
placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of lau- 
rel. But no funeral pomp could have left the 
impression, nor spoken the feelings, of this 
simple ceremony. The wretchedness and deso- 
lation of the place itself; the wild and half- 
civilized warriors present; their deep-felt, un- 
affected grief; the fond recollections ; the dis- 
appointed hopes ; the anxieties and sad pre- 
sentiments which might be read on every 
countenance — all contributed to form a scene 
more moving more truly affecting, than per- 
haps was ever before witnessed round the grave 
of a great man. 

When the funeral service was over, the bier 
was left in the middle of the church, where it 
remained until the evening of the next day, 
and was guarded by a detachment of his own 
brigade. The church was incessantly crowd- 
ed by those who came to honour and to regret 
the benefactor of Greece. In the evening of 
the 23d, the bier was privately carried back 
by his officers to his own house. The coffin 
was not closed till the 29th of the month. 

Immediately after his death, his countenance 
had an air of calmness, mingled with a se- 
verity, that seemed gradually to soften, and 
the whole expression was truly sublime. 

On May 2d, the remains of Lord Byron 
were embarked, under a salute from the guns 
of the fortress. " How different," exclaims 
Count Gamba, " from that which had wel- 
comed the arrival of Byron only four months 
ago !" After a passage of three days, the ves- 
sel reached Zante, and the precious deposit 
was placed in the quarantine house. Here 
some additional precautions were taken to en- 
sure its safe arrival in England, by providing 
another case for the body. On May the 10th, 
Colonel Stanhope arrived at Zante, from the 
Morea, and, as he w^as on his way back to 
England, he took charge of Lord Byron's re- 
mains, and embarked with them on board the 
Florida. On the 25th of May she sailed from 
Zante, on the 29th of June entered the Downs, 
and from thence proceeded to Stangate creek, 
to perform quarantine, where she arrived on 
Thursday, July 1st. 

John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. and John Han- 
son, Esq. Lord Byron's executors, after hav- 
mg proved his will, claimed the body from the 
Florida, and under their directions it was re- 
moved to the house of Sir Edward Knatch- 
bull, No. 20, Great George-street, West- 
minster. 

It was announced, from time to time, that 
the body of Lord Byron was to be exhibited 
in state, and the progress of the embelhsh- 
ments of the poet's bier was recorded in the 
pages of a hundred publications. They were 
at length completed, and to separate the curi- 
osity of the poor from the admiration of the 
rich, the latter were indulged with tickets of 
admission, and a day was set apart for them 
(o go and wonder over the decked room and 
J lie emblazoned bier. Peers and peeresses, 



priests, poets, and politicians, came in gilded ■ 
chariots, and in hired hacks, to gaze upon the 
splendour of the funeral preparations, and to 
see in how rich and how vain a shroud the 
body of the immortal bard had been hid. 
Those idle trappings, in which rank seems to 
mark its altitude above the vulgar, belonged 
to the state of the peer, rather than to the state 
of the poet; genius required no such attrac- 
tions, and all this magnificence served only to 
distract our regard from the man, whose in- 
spired tongue was now silenced for ever. 
Who cared for Lord Byron, the peer and the 
privy-counsellor, with his coronet, and his 
long descent from princes on one side, and 
from heroes on both ? and who did not care 
for George Gordon Byron, the poet, who has 
charmed us, and will charm our descendants, 
with his deep and impassioned verse? The 
homage was rendered to genius, not surely to 
rank — for lord can be stamped on any clay, 
but inspiration can only be impressed on the 
finest metal. 

A few select friends and admirers followed 
Lord Byron to the grave — his coronet was 
borne before him, and there were many indi- 
cations of his rank; but, save the assembled 
multitude, no indications of his genius. In 
conformity with a singular practice of the 
great, a long train of their empty carriages 
followed the mourning-coaches — mocking the 
dead with idle state, and impeding with barren 
pageantry the honester sympathy of the crowd. 
W^here were the owners of those machines of 
sloth and luxury — where were the men of 
rank, among whose dark pedigrees Lord By- 
ron threw the light of his genius, and lent the 
brows of nobility a halo to which they were 
strangers ? Where were the great whigs r 
where were the illustrious tories? could a 
mere difference in matters of human belief 
keep those fastidious persons away? But,above 
all, where were the friends with whom wed- 
lock had united him '' On his desolate corpse 
no wife looked, no child shed a tear. We have 
no wish to set ourselves up as judges in do- 
mestic infelicities, and we are willing to be- 
lieve they were separated in such a way as to 
render conciliation hopeless ; but who could 
stand and look on his pale manly face, and his 
dark locks, which early sorrows were making 
thin and gray, without feeling that, gifted as 
he was, with a- soul above the mark of other 
men, his domestic misfortunes called for our 
pity, as surely as his genius called for our ad- 
miration ? 

As the cavalcade proceeded through the 
streets of London, a fine-looking honest tar 
was observed to walk near the hearse uncov- 
ered, throughout the morning, and on being 
asked by a stranger whether he formed part 
of the funeral cortege, he replied, he came 
there to paj?^ his respects to the deceased, with 
whom he had served in the Levant, when he 
made the tour of the Grecian Islands. This 
poor fellow was kindly offered a place by some 
of the servants who were behind the carriage, 
but he said he was strong, and had rather walk 
near the hearse. 

It was not till Friday, July i6th, that the 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXXiX 



interment took place. Lord Byron was buried 
in the family vault, at the village of Huck- 
nall, eight miles beyond Nottingham, and 
within two miles of the venerable abbey of 
Newstead. He was accompanied to the grave 
by crowds of persons eager to show this last 
testimony of respect to his memory. In one 
of his earlier poems, he had expressed a wish 
that his dust might mingle with his mother's, 
and, in compliance with this wish, his coffin 
was placed in the vault next to hers. It was 
twenty minutes past four o'clock, on Friday, 
July 16th, 1824, when the ceremony was con- 
cluded, when the tomb closed for ever on By- 
ron, and when his friends were relieved from 
every care concerning him, save that of doing 
justice to his memory, and of cherishing his 
fame. 

The following inscription was placed on 
the coffin : — 

" George Gordon Noel Byron, 

Lord B)Ton, 

of Rochdale, 

Bom m London,' 

Jan. 22, 1788, 

died at INIissolonghi, 

in Western Greece, 

April 19th, 1824." 

1 Ml. DaDas says Dover which is undoubtedly correct. 



An urn accompanied the coffin, and on il 
was inscribed : 

"Within this urn are deposited the heart, 

brain, etc. 

of the deceased Lord BjTon." 

An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble, 
has been placed in the chancel of the Hucknal 1 
church. We subjoin a copy of the inscrip- 
tion. 

.The words are in Roman capitals, and di- 
vided into lines, as under : 

IN THE VAXTLT BENEATH, 

WHERE MANV OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTIIEB 

ARE BURIED, 

LIE THE REMAINS OF 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 

LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER ; 

THE AUTHOR OF " CHILDE HAROLD's PILGRIMAGE.^ 

HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 

22d OF JANUARY, 1788. 

HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 

ON THE 19th OF APRIL, 1824, 

ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RESTORS 

that COtTNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM 

AND RENOWN. 



HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE 

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 

PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMOar. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



If, yet, l\iy gent e spirit hover nigh 
The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Here wilt thou tread, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep. 
Bat U.-ing statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb. 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What tliough thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour ^vill cheer. 
Yet, other offspring sooth his anguish here : 
But who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image what new friendship can efface ? 
Ah, none ! a father's tears will cease to flow. 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
To all, save one, is consolation known, 
While soUtary Friendship sighs alone. 

1803. 



A FRAGMENT. 
When to their air^' hall my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride. 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns. 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns : 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone ; 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
Ob ! may no other fame my deeds repay ; 
T^fii, only that, shall single out the spot, 
Hv that reraember'd, or with that forgot. 

1803. 



THE TEAR. 



O lacrymarum fons, tenero sacroa 
Ducentium ortus ex animo ; qualer 
Felix! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. 



GRAY. 



When Friendship or Love 

Our sjTnpathies move ; 
When Truth in a glance should appear ; 

The lips may beguile, 

With a dimple or smile, 
But the test of affection's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile 

But the hypocrite's -wile. 
To mask detestation or fear ; 

Give me the soft sigh, 

Whilst the soul-telling eye 
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear. 

Mild charity's glow, 

To us mortals below. 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 

Compassion will melt, 

Where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear 

The man doom'd to sail. 
With the blast of the gale, 
Ihrough biTiows Atlantic to steer; 



As he bends o'er the wave, 
Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death. 

For a fanciful wreath. 
In Glory's romantic career ; 

But he raises the foe, 

When in battle laid low. 
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If, with high-bounding pride, 

He return to his bride, 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear , 

All his toils are repaid, 

When, embracing the maid, 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth. 

Seat of Friendship and Truth, 
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year ; 

Loth to leave thee, I mourn' d. 

For a last look I turn'd. 
But thy spire was scarce seen through aTeai. 

Though my vows I can pour, 

To my Mary no more, 
My Mary, to Love once so dear ; 

In the shade of her bower, 

I remember the hour. 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear . 

By another possest. 

May she ever live blest, 
Her name still my heart must revere j 

With a sigh I resign, 

What I once thought was mine 
And forgive her decei* with a Tear. 

Ye friends ' ..y heart, 

Ere from j'uu I depart, 
This hope to my breast is mos', near ; 

If again we shall meet. 

In this rural retreat, 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight. 

To the regions of night, 
And ray corse shall recline on its bier ; 

As ye pass by the tomb. 

Where my ashes consume. 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow 

The splendour of woe. 
Which tlie children of vanity rear ; 

No fiction of fame 

Shall blazon my name, 
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear. 

1806. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 

Delivered previous to the performance of " The U'W* 

of Fortune'^ at a private theatre. 

Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ ; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



3 



Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, 

Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 

Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 

And meet indulgence though she find not fame. 

Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 

Others appear more conscious of defect ; 

To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, 

[n all the arty of scenic action old ; 

No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 

No SiDDO^s draw the sympathetic tear ; 

To-night, you throng to witness the debut 

( )f embryo Actors, to the drama new. 

Here, then, our almost unfledged wngs we try ; 

Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly ; 

Faihng in this our first attempt to soar, 

Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, 

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise, 

But all our Dramatis Personae wait. 

In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward 5 

For these, each Hero all his power displays, 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze: 

Surely, the last will some protection find, 

None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 

Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 

The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. 

Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail. 

Should, after all, our best endeavours fail ; 

Still, let some mercy in j^our bosoms live. 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. 

The foUowing illiberal Impromptu appeared in 

Morning Paper. 
Our Nation's foes lament, on Fox's death, 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath ; 
These feelings wide let Sense and Truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points it due. 
To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following 

Reply. 
Oh! factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 
What, though our " nation's foes" lament the fate, 
With generous feeling, of the good and great ; 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
When Pitt expired, in plenitude of power. 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour. 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread. 
For nobie spirits "war not with the dead." 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave. 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
He sunk, an Atlas, benduig 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state ; 
When, lo ! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd, 
vYho, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd ; 
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied ; 
With him, our fast-reviving hopes have died : 
Not one great people only raise his urn, 
Ail Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
" These feelings wide let Sense and Truth undue, 
To give the pakn where Justice points it due ;" 



Yet let not canker'd calunmy assail. 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veix. 

Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep. 

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep^ 

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 

While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 

Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, 

Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign, 

Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, 

For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



STAJs^ZAS TO A LADY. 

With the Poems of Camoens. 

This votive pledge of fond esteem. 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou 'It prize ; 
It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 

A theme we never can despise. 
Who blames it but the envious fool. 

The old and disappointed maid ? 
Or pupil of the prudish school. 

In single sorrow doom'd to fade. 
Then read, dear girl, with feeling read. 

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those j 
To thee in vain I shall not plead. 

In pitj' for the Poet's woes. 
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint fictitious flame ; 
Like his, may love be thy reward. 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



TO M * * *. 



Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire. 

With bright, but mild affection shine ; 
Though they might kindle less desire, 

Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam. 
We must admire, but still despair : 

That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 

So much perfection in thee shone. 
She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 

The skies might claim thee for their own. 
Therefore, to guard her dearest work. 

Lest angels might dispute the prize. 
She bade a secret lightning lurk 

Within those once celestial eyes. 
These might the boldest sylph appal, 

When gleaming with meridian blaze / 
Thy beauty must enrapture all. 



But who can dare thine ardent 



gaze 



'T is said, that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vadt of heaven , 
But they would ne'er permit thee there. 

Thou would'st so far outshine the seven. 
For, did those eyes as planets roll. 

Thy sister Ughts would scarce appear : 
E'en suns, which sj'stems now control, 

Would twinkle dimly through their spherf 

. Sfitt 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO WOMAN. 

WoAi 4.N ! experience might have told me, 

That all mast love thee who behold thee, 

Surely, experience might have taught, 

Thy firmest promi&3s are nought ; 

But, placed in all tliy charms before me, 

All 1 forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh ! Memory ! thou choicest blessing ; 

When jom'd with hope, when still possessing; 

But how much cursed by every lover, 

When hope is fled, and passion's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 

How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 

How tlirobs the pulse, when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from mider hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath. 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 't will last for aye, 

When, lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

"Woman ! thy vows are traced in sand.'" 



TO M. S. G. 

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive. 

Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone, your affection can live ; 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 
Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should .he di-eam of to-night but resemble the last ; 

What rapture eelestial is mine ! 
They tell us, that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven! 
Ah ! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow. 

Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 
Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps, you may smile. 

Oh ! thmk not my penance deficient ; 
Whea dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



SONG. 
When I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath. 

And cUmb'd thy steep summit, oh ! Morven of Snow,'^ 
To guze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,' 

1 l*he last line is almost a literal translation from the Spanish 
proverb. 

2 Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire : *' Gormal of 
6now," is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. 

3 This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been 
accustomed to the mountains it is by no means uncommon on 
attaining the fop of Ben e vis, Ben y bourd, etc. to perceive, 
between the summit and tne valley, clouds pouring down rain, 
and. occasionally, accompanied by lightning, while the spec- 
lator iiiera!iy looks down on tlie storm, perfectly secure from 
lis *ff(<'a 



Untutor'd by science, a strangtr to fear. 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew. 

No feeling, save one, to my bossom was dear. 

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you ? 

Yet, it could not be Love, for I knew not the name ; 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
But, still, I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
One image, alone, on my bosom imprest, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were blest. 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was w^th you 

I arose with the dawTi ; with my dog as my guide, 

From mountain to mountain I bounded along, 
I breasted ' the billows of Dee's ^ rushing tide. 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. 

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone. 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more ; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 

And delight but in days I have witness'd before. 
Ah ! splendour has rais'd, but embitter'd my lot. 

More dear were the scenes which my hifancy knew • 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are notforgot, 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ; 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; 
When, haply, some light waving locks I beheld, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold. 

The locks that were sacred to beatity, and you. 

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains, oncemorc^, 

Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow : 
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, 

Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah, no ! 
Adieu ! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred. 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head ; 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you 1 



TO * * *. 

Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other, 
The friendships of childhood, tliough fleeting, s 
true ; 

The love which you felt was the love of a brother. 
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion, 
The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 

Like Love too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion. 
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 



1 "Breasting the lofty surge." — Shakspeare. 

2 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar 'xxlgo 
and falls into the sea at Is^ew Aberdeen. 

3 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge oi f^a Highla lis 
not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow ; 
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather ! 

But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 
No more with A.ffection shall Memory blending 

The wonted dehghts of our childhood retrace ; 
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending. 

And what would be Justice appears a disgrace. 
However, dear S , for I still must esteem you, 

The few whom I love I can never upbraid. 
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you, 

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection. 

With me no corroding resentment shall live ; 
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection. 

That both may be wrong, and that both should 
forgive. 
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 

If danger demanded, were wholly your o\vn ; 
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance, 

Devoted to love and to 'riendship alone. 
You knew, — but away with the vain retrospection. 

The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection. 

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 
For the present, we part, — I will hope not for ever, 

For time and regret will restore you at last ; 
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour ; 

I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 



TO MARY, 

On receiving her picture. 

This faint resemblance of thy charms. 

Though strong as mortal art could give, 
My constant heart of fear disarms. 

Revives my hopes, and bids me Uve. 
Here, I can trace the locks of gold. 

Which round thy sno^\'y forehead wave ; 
The cheeks, which spnmg from Beauty's mould. 

The lips, wliich made me Beauty's slave. 
Here, I can trace ah no ! that eye, 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

And bid him from the task retire. 
Here I behold its beauteous hue, 

But where's the beam so sweetly straying ? 
Which gave a lustre to its' blue. 

Like Luna o'er the ocean plas^ng. 
Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art. 
Than all the li\TJig forms could be, 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 
She placed it, sad, ^^ith needless fear. 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
Unconscious, that her image, there. 

Held every sense in fast control. 

iTiro' hoLii-s, tb-o' years, tliro' time, 't\vill cheer; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
In life's last conflict 't will appear. 

And meet my fona expiring gaze. 



DAM^TAS. 

In law an infant, ' and in years a boy, 
In mind a slave to every vicious joy. 
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd, 
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 
Versed in hypocrisy, vrhUe yet a child, 
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool, 
Old in the world, tho' scarcely broke from sch'-^ol 
DaiA.3etas ran through all the maze of sin. 
And found the goal, when others just begin ; 
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul. 
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 
But, paU'd with \'ice, he breaks his former chain, 
And, what was once his bliss, appears his bano. 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 

What disgust to life hast thou ? 

Change that discontented air ; 

Fro%vns become not one so fair. 

'T is not love disturbs thy rest. 

Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 

He in dimpling smiles appears , 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears , 

Or bends the languid ej-ehd dov/n. 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire. 

Some will love, and all admire ; 

While that icy aspect chills us. 

Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile, at least, or seem to smile ; 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs, in dark restraint ; 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips, — but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse ; 

She blushes, curtsies, frowns, — in short, she 

Dreads, lest the subject should transport me 

And flying off, in search of reason. 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 

All I shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think is neither here nor there). 

Is that such lips, of looks endearing. 

Were fonn'd for better things than sneering ; 

Of soothing compliments divested. 

Advice at least disinterested ; 

Such is my artless song to thee. 

From all the flow of flattery free ; 

Counsel, like mine, is as a brother's. 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen. 

It shares itself amongst a dozen. 

Marion! adieu! oh! prithee slight Tiof 

This warning, though it may delight not : 

And lest my precepts be displeasing 

To those who think remonstr-^nce teaziiig, 

At once I '11 tell thee our opinion. 

Concerning woman's sofl dominion : 



1 In law, every persion is an infant who lias not ? f.ained utj* 
age of twenty-one. 



Ilowe'er we gaze with admiration, 
On eyes of blue, or lips carnation ; 
Howe'er tlie flowing locks attract us, 
Howe'er those beauties may distract us ; 
StiU fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These cannot fix our souls to love ; 
It is not too severe a stricture, 
To say they form a prett}' picture. 
But would'st thou see the secret cham, 
Which binds us in your humble train, 
To hail you queens of all creation, 
f low, in a word, 'tis Ammatioa. 



OSCAR OF ALVA.i 

A TALE. 

How sweetly shinev,, through azure sides. 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore. 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the din of arms no more. 

But often has yon roUing moon 
On Alva's casques of silver play'd. 

And view'd, at midnight's silent noon. 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd. 

And on tne cnmson'd rocks beneath. 
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow. 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death. 
She saw the gasping warrior low. 

While many an eye, which ne'er again 
Could mark the rising orb of day, 

Turn'd feebly from the gory plain. 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once, to thojc eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light : 

But now, she glunmer'd fi-om above, 
A sad funereal torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race. 

And grey her towers are seen afar ; 

No more her heroes urge the chase, 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

But who was last of Alva's clan? 

Why grov.'s the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 
And, when that gale is fierce and high, 

A sound is heard in j'onder hall, 
It rises hoarsely through the sky. 

And vibrates o'er the mouldermg wall. 

Yes, when the eddymg tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

but there no more his barmers rise. 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth. 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

I Tie vassals round their chieftain's hearth. 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 



I The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of 

•Jcronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of "The Ar- 

ai'enian. or Ghost-Seer :" it also bears some resemblance to 

scene ill tlie third act of " Macbetli." 



They feast upon the mountain deer, 
The Pibroch raised its piercing no'e, 

To gladden more their Highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float. 

And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
Hoped that, one day, the Pibroch's strain 

Should play before the Hero's child, 
While he should lead the Tartan train. 

Another year is quickly past. 

And Angus hails another son. 
His natal day is like the last. 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their she to bend the bow. 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind. 
The boys m childhood chased the roe. 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 

But, ere their years of youth are o'er 
They rnmgle in the ranks of war ; 

They lightly wield the bright claymore. 
And send the whistUng arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 
Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fair. 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth , 
Allan had early leam'd control, 

And smooth his words had been from youth. 

Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear. 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel. 

While Allan's soul behed his form, 

Unworthy with such charms to dwell ; 
Keen as the lightning of the storm, 

On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 
From liigh Southannon's distant tower 

Arrived a young and noble dame : 
With Kermeth's lands to form her dower 

Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter can-ie : 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 

And Angus on his Oscar smiled ; 
It soothed the father's feudal pride, 

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 
Hark ! to the Pibroch's pleasmg note, 

Hark ! to the swelling nuptial song ; 
In jovous strains the voices float, 

And still the choral peal prolong. 
See how the heroes' blood-red plumes, 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on their chieftain's call. 
It is not war their aid demands. 

The Pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands. 

Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 
But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late : 

Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 
While thronging guests and ladies wait 

Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



At length young Allan join'd the bride, 
"Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said ; 

" Is he not here?" The yauth replied, 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade. 

" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'T is his to chase the bounding roe ; 

Or Ocean's waves prolong his slay, 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

" Oh ! no !" the anguish'd sirs rejoin'd, 

" Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; 
Would he to Mora seem unkmd ? 

Would aught to her impede his way ? 
" Oh ! search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around ! 

Allan, with these through Alva fly, 
T'ill Oscar, till my son is found, 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply !" 
All is confusion — through the vale 

The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 
It rises on the murmuring gale. 

Till night expands her dusky wings. 
It breaks the stillness of the night, 

But echoes through her shades in vain; 
It sounds through morning's misty Ught, 

But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 
Three days, three sleepless nights, the chief 

For Oscar scarch'd each mountain cave ; 
Then hope is lost in boundless grief, 

His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. 
" Oscar ! my son ! — Thou God of heaven ! 

Restore the prop of sinking age ; 
Or, if that hope no more is given. 

Yield his assassin .to my rage. 
" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 

My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; ' 
Then, grant, thou God ! I ask no more. 

With him his frantic sire may die. 
" Yet, he may live — away despair ; 

Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ; 

God, my impious prayer forgive. 

" What, if he live for me no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; 

Alas ! can pangs like these be just?" 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 

Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 
Had bade serenity return. 

And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 
For still some latent hope survived, 

That Oscar might once more appear ; 
His hope now droop'd, and now revived. 

Till Time had told a tedious year. 

Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
\gain had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight. 
And sorrow left 3. fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remain'd, 
And, now, his father's only joy : 

And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd. 
For bCMUty cro^\•n'd the fair-hau-'d Ijoy. 



She thought that Oscar low was laid, 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 

If Oscar hved, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 

And Angus said, if one year more 
In fruitless hope was pass'd away. 

His fondest scruple should be o'er. 
And he would name their nuptial day. 

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last, 
Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 

The year of anxious trembling past, 
What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn ! 

Hark ! to the Pibroch's pleasing note. 
Hark ! to the swelling nuptial song ; 

In joyous strains the voices float. 
And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd. 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hail , 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 

Before his eye's far fiercer glow 

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form. 
And taU his plume of gory red ; 

His voice is like the rising storm. 
But Ught and trackless is his tread. 

'T is noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaft-, 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows. 

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

" Old man !" he cried, " this pledge is done 
Thou saw'st 't was duly drunk by me. 

It hail'd the nuptials of thy son ; 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

" While all around is mu-th and joy. 
To bless thy Allan's happy lot ; 

Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy ? 
Say why should Oscar be forgot?" 

"Alas !" the hapless sire replied. 
The big tear starting as he spoke ; 

" When Oscar left my hall, or died. 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course. 
Since Oscar's form has blest my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource. 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

" 'T is well," replied the stranger stem, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye ; 

" Th^ Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar might retu-n ■ 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Perchance the chief has only roved, 

For him thy Beltane ' yet may bum. 
" Fill high the bowl, the table round, 

We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 
With \vine let every cup be cro\vn'd. 

Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 
" With all my soul," old Angus tjaid, 

And fill'd his goblet f o the brim ; 
" Here 's to my boy ! alive or dead, 

I ne'er shall find a son like him." 
" Bravely, old man, this health has sped, 

But why does Allan trembling stand? 
Come, di'ink remembrance of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 
The crimson glow of Allan's face 

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
The drops of death each other chase, 

Adown in agonizing dew. 
Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 

And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye, 

On his with deadly fury placed. 
" And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
If thus affection's strength prevails. 

What might we not expect from fear ?" 
Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl • 

" Would Oscar now could share our mirth !" 
Internal fear appall'd his soul. 

He said, and dash'd the cup to eai-th. 
" 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice," 

Loud shrieks a darklj'-gleaming Form ; 
" A murderer's voice !" the roof replies. 

And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 

The stranger 's gone, amidst the crew 
A Form was seen, in tartan green. 

And tall the shade terrific grew. 
His waist was bound with a broad belt round. 

His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 
And frc'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild. 

On Angus, bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he fro\ATi'd on a Chief on the ground. 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole. 

The thunders through the welkin ring ; 
And the gleaming Form, tlirough the mist of the storm. 

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased ; 

Who hes upon the stony floor? 
Oblivion prest old Angus' breast, 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

" Away, away, let the leech essay. 
To pour the lifrht on Allan's eyes !" 

His sand is done, — his race is run. 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 

1 Beltane-Tree.— A Highland festival, on the 1st of May, 
hem near firee lightei for the occasion. 



But Oscar's breast is cold as clay. 

His locks are Ufled by the gale, 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay, 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
And whence the dreadful stranger came, 

Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 
But no one doubts the Form of Flame, 

For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand. 

Exulting demons wing'd his dart. 
While Envy waved her burning brand. 

And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
Swifl is the shaft from Allan's bow : 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
And Mora's eye could AUan move, 

She bade his wounded pride rebel : 
Alas ! that eyes, which beam'd with love, 

Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell. 
Lo ! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, 

■Which rises o'er a warrior dead ! 
It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 

Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave. 

Which held his clan's great ashes, stood ; 
And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were stain'd ^\ith kindred blood. 
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, 

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 
The song is glory's chief reward. 

But who can strike a murderer's praise? 
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand. 

No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 

His harp hi shuddering chords would brc-cw 
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse. 

Shall sound his glories high in air, 
A dying father's bittei curse, 

A brother's death-groan echoes there. 

TO THE DUKE OF D. 



In looking over my papers, to select a few additiona! loema 
for this second edition, I found the following lines, which 1 
had totally forgotten, composed in the Summer of 1805, a 

short time previous to my departure from H . They 

were addressed to a young school-fellow of high rank, who 
had been my frequent companion in some rambles through 
the neighbouring country: however he never saw the lines, 
and most probably never will. As, on a re-perusal I found 
them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, 1 
have now published them, for the first time, after a slight 
revision. 

D — R — T ! whose early steps with mine have stray 'o. 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade. 
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend. 
And made me less a t\Tant than a friend ; 
Though the harsh custom of our jouthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;' 



1 At every public school, the junior boys arc completely 
subservient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat in the 
higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, 
no rank is exempt: but after a certain period, they command 
in turn, those who succeed. 



HOURS OF IDIiENESS. 



Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 

The gift of riches, and the pride of power ; 

Even n:»w a name illustrious is thine own, 

Renown'd in rank, not far bene;ilh the throne. 

Vet, D — r — t, let not this seduce thy soul, 

To shun fair science, or evade control ; 

Though passive tutors,' fearful to dispraise 

The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 

View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 

And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 

To wealth, their golden idul, — not to thee ! 

And, even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, 

Some slaves are found to flat ter and to fawn : 

When these declare, " that jsomp alone should wait 

On one by birth predestined to be great ; 

That books were only meant for drudging fools ; 

That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" 

BeUeve them not, — they point the path to shame, 

And seek to blast the honours of thy name : 

Turn to the few, in Ma's early throng. 

Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 

Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth. 

Ask thine own heait! 't will bid thee, boy, forbear, 

For well I know that virtue hngers there. 

Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 

But now new scenes invite me far away; 

Yes ! I have mark'd, within that generous mind, 

A soul, if well niatured, to bless mankind: 

Ah ! though myself by nature haughty, wild, 

Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child, 

Though every error stann)s me for her own, 

And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 

rhjugh my proud heart no precept now can tame, 

I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

'T is not enough, with other Sons of power, 

To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour. 

To swell some peerage page in feeble pride. 

With long-dravvn names, that grace no page beside ; 

Then share with titled crowds the common lot, 

In life just gaz.ed at, in the grave forgot; 

While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead. 

Except the duU cold stone that hides thy head. 

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll. 

That well emblazon'd, but neglected scroll. 

Whet e Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find 

One spot to leave a worthless name behind ; — 

There .sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 

Tnat veil their dust, their follies, and their faults ; 

A 1 ace, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 

In r(!cords destined never to be read. 

Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 

Evalted more among the good and wise ; 

A glorious and a long career pursue. 

As first in rank, the first in talent too ; 

Spvn-n every vice, each little mearmess shun. 

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 



1 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the 
niost distant; I merely mention, generally, what is too often 
the weakness of preceptors. 

E 7 



Turn to the armals of a former day, — 

Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display; 

One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth, 

And call'd, proud boast! the British Drama forth.' 

Another view ! not less renown'd for Wit, 

Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 

Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine, 

In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; 

Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 

The pride of princes, and the boast of song.^ 

Such were thy Fathers ; thus preseiTC their name. 

Not heir to titles only, but to Fame. 

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 

To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 

Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all wcr9 

mine ; 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day ; 

Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell 

Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore. 
Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

D — r — t ! farewell ! I will not ask one part 

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 

And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. 

Since chance has thrQ\vn us in the self-same sphere. 

Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, 

May one day claim our suffi-age for the state. 

We hence may meet, and pass each other by 

With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 

A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe ; 

With thee no more again I hope to trace 

The recollection of our early race ; 

No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice, 

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-knov;n voice. 

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 

To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought ; 

If these, — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain. 

Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain. 

The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate, 

Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great 



1 "Thomas S — k — He, Lord B — k — st, created Earl oi 
D by James the First, was one of the earliest and bright- 
est ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who 
produced a regular drama." — Anderson's British Poets. 

2 Charles S — k — lie, Earl of D , esteemed the mos\ 

accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in tlio 
voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of Wi! 
liam III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight 
with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to which he 
composed his celebrated song. His character has been drawn 
in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Coiiprcvfl 
Vide Anderson's British Poets. 



10 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



EvamUtionB anU JImitations, 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN 
DYING. 

Animula ! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
Quae nunc abibis in loca ? 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Ncc, ut soles, dabis jocos. 



TRANSLATION. 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
No more, with wonted humour gay, 

But palhd, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 



AD LESBIAM.' 



Equal to Jove that youth must be, 
Greater than Jove he seems to me, 
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms ; 
Thdt cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 
That mouth from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known. 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but gazing die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres. 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short. 
My limbs deny their sUght support ; 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread. 
With deadly languor droops my head, 
My ears with tingling echoes ring. 
And life itself is on the wing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering hght. 
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath. 
And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION 

(JF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who, subUme, in Epic numbers roll'd. 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 

By Death's unequal hand ' alike control'd. 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. 



I Thfc nand of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as 
VirgU was considerably older than Ti )ullus, at his decease. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATUI^.l * 



LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSEHi^' 



Ye Cupids, droop each little head. 
Nor let your Avings with joy be spread ; 
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead. 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved ; 
For he was gentle, and so true. 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew. 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved: 
And softly fluttering here and there. 
He never sought to cleave the air ; 
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, 
From whence he never can return. 
His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn. 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 
Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave. 
From whom no earthly power can save, 

For thf a hast ta'en the bird away: 
From thee, m.y Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. 
Her swollen cheeks v^ith weeping glow, 
Thou art the cause of all her woe, 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



milTATED FROM CATULLUS. 



TO ELLEN. 



Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire ; 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss. 
And dwell an age on every kiss ; 
Nor then my soul should sated be. 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever. 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E'en though the number did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed ; 
To part would be a vain endeavour, 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — ^never. 



TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON 



TO HIS LTRE. 



I WISH to tune my quivering Ktc, 
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire ; 
To echo fron' "is rising swell. 
How heroes fought, and nations fell ; 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war. 
Or Tj'rian Cadmus roved afar; 
But, stiU, to martial strains unknown^ 
]My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war my harp is due ; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



11 



With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise a^ain ; 
Alcides and his glorious deedb, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds : 
All, all in vain, my wayward l}Te 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu ! ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
Adieu ! the clang of war's alarms. 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 
Love, love alone, my l3Te shall claim, 
In so"g3 of bliss, and sighs of flame. 



ODE m. 

'TwAS now the hour, when Night had driven 
Her car half round yon sable heaven • 
Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 
His Arctic charge around the Pole ; 
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 
Forgot to smile, or cease to weep ; 
At this lone hour, the Papliian boy, 
i)escending from the realms of joy, 
^uick to my gate directs his course, 
\nd knocks with all his little force : 
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose ; 
' What stranger breaks my blest repose?" 
* Alas !" replies the wily child, 
'.n faltering accents, sweetly mild, 
*' A hapless mfant here I roam, 
Far from my dear maternal home ; 
Oh ! shield me from the wnntry blast, 
The mighty storm is pouring fast ; 
No prowling robber lingers here, 
A wandering baby who can fear?" 
I heard his seeming artless tale, 
I heard his sighs upon the gale ; 
My breast was never pity's foe, 
But felt for all the baby's woe ; 
I drew the bar, and by the light. 
Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 
His bow across his shoulders flung. 
And thence his fatal quiver hung, 
(Ah ! little did I think the dart 
Would rankle soon within my heart;) 
With care I tend my weary guest, 
His little fingers cliiU my breast ; 
His glossy curls, his azure wing. 
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring. 
His shivering limbs the embers warm, 
And now, reviving from the storm, 
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow. 
Than swift he seized his slender bow : 
' I fain would know, my gentle host," 
He cried, '* if this its strength has lost ; 
1 fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 
The strings their former aid refuse :" 
With poison tipt, his arrow flies, 
Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 
Then loud the jojous urchin laugh'd, 
" My bow can s^H impel the shaft ; 
'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 
Say, courteous host, caxist Uioij not feel it?" 



FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 

FKOM THE PROMETHEUS OF ^SCHYLUS. 

Great Jove ! to whose Almighty throne 

Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown. 

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey- 
Oft shall the sacred \-ictim fall 
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy haU ; 
My voice shaU raise no impious stram 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 
******* 

How different now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride. 
When placed aloft in godlike state. 

The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled. 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled ; 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around. 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. 
Harrow, Bee. 1, 1S04. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^XEID, LIB. 9. 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 

Eager to gild liis arms with hostile blood ; 

Well skill'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield. 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field , 

From Ida torn, he left his sj'lvan cave. 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave 

To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 

With him, Euryalus sustains the post ; 

No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom }-et graced the gallant boy ; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

'T was his, with beauty, valour's gift to share, 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair ; 

These bum w ith one pure flame of generous love, 

In peace, in war, united still they move ; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward. 

And now combined, they hold the nightly guard. 

" What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire ? 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
My labouring soul, with anxious thought opprest. 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
The love of fame with this can ill accord, — 
Be 't mine to seek for gloiy with my sword. 
See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim. 
Where drunken slumbers wTap each lazy limb ? 
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 
And drowsy Silence liolds her sable reign ? 
Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen giief, 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine); 
Were this decreed — beneath yon rising mound, 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were four.u. 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' avails 
And lead jEneas from Evander's halls." 
With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy. 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan bov 
" These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone ' 
Mast all the fame, the peril, be thine own t 



12 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am I by thcc despised, and left afar, 
As one unfit to share the toils of ^va^ ? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught, 
Not thus ni}- sire in Argive combats fought ; 
Not thus, when Hion fell bj' lieavenly hate, 
I track'd ^Eneas tnrough the walks of fate ; 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear ; 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, 
And life, ignoble life, for Gloiy spurns ; 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath, 
The price of honour is the sleep of death." 
Then Nisus — "Calm thy bosom's fond alarms. 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms ; 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
1 swear by him who fills Ol5"mpus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I spealc the truth. 
And clasp again the comrade of my j'outh. 
But should I fall, and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance j 
If some RutuUan arm, with adverse blow. 
Should laj^ the friend who ever loved thee low ; 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve ; 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse : 
Or, if my destiny these last deny. 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb. 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doating wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
Wlio, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared. 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her aative for tlie Latian shore." 
" In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus, " it scorns control; 
Hence, let us haste." — Their brother guards arose, 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 
Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
A ud luU'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold ; 
On one great point the council are agreed. 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could meld. 
And j)oised, with easy arm, his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the tiirone appear ; 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command. 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

"With patience," thus Hyrtacides began, 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan ; 
W here yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor need that we a secret path have traced, 
Betw.'en the ocean and the portal placed: 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
VVhosc srtadc securely our design mil cloak. 



If you, ye chiefs, and Fortune \vill allow. 
We '11 bend our course to yonder mountain's bro^T , 
Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight, 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night ; 
Then shall JEneas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their oflTspring's urn, 
And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread ; 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the waj'. 
Where yonder torrent's de\ious waters stray . 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream. 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed. 
Moved b}'^ the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd : 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in stripUngs thus ye laise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be }'ours the praise ; 
In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive. 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then, in his wann embrace, the boys he press'd. 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : — 
" What gifi;, my countrj-men, what martial prize 
Can we bestow, which s'ou may not despise? 
Our deities the first, best boon have given, 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on eai'th, 
Doubtless, await such young exalted worth ; 
^neas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
lulus then : " By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates* who my country love ; 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
My ho^es are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight. 
And all my sorrows yield to one dehght. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved fi-om Arisba's stately domes o'ertliro'mi ; 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey. 
Two massy tripods also shall be thine. 
Two talents pohsh'd from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave. 
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : 
But, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down. 
When great yEneas wears Hesperia's crown. 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed. 
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speedy 
Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge mj^ word, irrevocably pass'd ; 
Nay more, twelve slaves and twice six captive dames, 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
And all the realms wliich now the Latians e'*»y, 
The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid no glory shall be mine, 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike, through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 



* Household Gods 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



To mm Euryalus • " No aay shall shame 
Tlie nsmg giories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favour or the skies may frown, 
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 
My mother spnmg from Priam's royal line, 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine ; 
Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feebled age from dangers of the main ; 
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave, 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave : 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ,' 
By gloomy Night, and thy right hand, I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain. 
In thee her much-loved child may Uve again ; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless. 
Assist her wants, reheve her fond distress : 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care, so deeply felt. 
In tears, at once, the Trojan warriors melt ; 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflovv ; 
Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 
"All thou hast ask'd. receive," the prince replied, 
"Nor tliis alone, but many a gift beside ; 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's ' style but wanting to the dame ; 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run. 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath. 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
For friends to emy and for foes to feel. 
A tawnj^ hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnestheus, to guard the elder youth, bestows, 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows ; 
Arm'd, thence they go, while all the assembled train. 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain ; 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place ; 
His prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail. 
Lost in the murmurs of .the sighing gale ? 

The trench is past, and, favour'd bj'^ the night, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots, and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen, 
And flowmg flasks, and scatter'd troops between ; 
Racchus and Mars to rule the camp combine, 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare. 
With me the conquest and the labour share ; 
Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
Watch thou, wliile manv a dreaming chieftain dies : 



The mother of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was taken. 
E 2 



I'll carve ovr passage through the heedless foe, 

And clear thj' road, with many a deadly blow." 

His whispering accents then the j'outh represt. 

And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast; 

Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed, 

Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed ; 

To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince. 

His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 

But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 

Could not avert his own untimely fall. 

Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell. 

And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell : 

The charioteer along his courser's sides 

Expires, the steel his severed neck divides ; 

And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead, 

Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 

From the swoUen veins the blackening torrents pour, 

Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 

Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire. 

And gay Serranus, fiU'd with j'outhful fire ; 

Half the long night in childish games was past, 

Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last • 

Ah ! happier far, had he tlie morn survey'd. 

And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep. 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls ; 
Insatiate still, through teemmg herds he roams, 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less tlie other's deadly vengeance came. 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His woimd unconscious Fadus scarce can fee), 
Yet wakeful Rhcssus sees the threatening stee , 
His coward breast behind a jar he hides. 
And, vainly, in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, die falchion search'd his veins. 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as thej' flow, 
The feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now, where Messapus dwelt they bend their way. 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed ; 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm ; 
" Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is past, 
FuU foes enough, to-night, have breadied their last ; 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn. 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

What silver arms, with various arts emboss'd. 
What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardless ! j'et, one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes : 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt : 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a fine of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' hehn his head, in triumph, bears , 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they ben<i 
To seek the vale, where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined cti ria" : 



14 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While the slow foot theit tardy march dela}', 

The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 

Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 

To Turnus, with their master's promise sped : 

Now, they approach the trench, and view the walls, 

When, on tlie left, a hght reflection falls ; 

The plunder' d helmet, through the waning night, 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright ; 

Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms — 

•' Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms? 

From whence? to whom?" He meets v/ith no reply; 

Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; 

The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

W^ith brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 

Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene ; 

Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 

The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 

But Nisus scours along the forest's maze. 

To where Latinus' steeds, in safety graze, 

Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend. 

On every side tliey seek his absent friend. 

*' O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft. 

In what impending perils art thou left !" 

Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 

Tumultuous voices swell the passing brecie; 

The war-cry rises, thundermg hoofs around 

Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground ; 

Again he turns — of footsteps hears the noise, 

The sound elates — the sight his hope destroys ; 

The hapless boy a ruffian train surround. 

While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 

Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue. 

Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 

What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? 

Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ! 

What force, what aid, what stratagem essay. 

Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ! 

His life a votive ransom nobly give. 

Or die with him for whom he wish''! to live ! 

Poising with strength his hfted lance on high, 

On Luna's orb he cast his phrenzied eye : 

" Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 

Queen of the sky ! whose beams are seen afar ; 

By night. Heaven owns thy sway, by day, the grove. 

When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 

If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace 

Thine altars with the produce of the chase ; 

Si)eed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd. 

To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 

Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 

Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ; 

The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 

Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay : 

He sobs, he dies, — the troop, in wild amaze, 

UiK^onscious wfience the death, with horror gaze ; 

Wlule pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 

A second shaft with equal force is driven ; 

Fierce V'olscens rolls around his lowering eyes, 

Veif'd ay the night, secure the Trojan Ues. 

Bui ning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall ; 

" Thon youth accurst ! thy life shall pay for all." 

Quif.K froni the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 

Ai.d ragnig, on tne Doy defenceless flew. 



Nisus no more the blackening shade jonceals. 

Forth, Ibrth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 

Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise. 

And pour these accents, shrieking as he flics : 

" Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone, 

Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own ; 

Ye starry Spheres ! thou conscious Heaven attest ! 

He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 

All, all was mine — his early fate suspend. 

He only loved too well his hapless friend ; 

Spare, spare, ye chiefs! from him your rage remove 

His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 

He pray'd in vain, the dark assassin's sword 

Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 

Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest. 

And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 

As some s^oung rose, whose blossom scents the air. 

Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 

Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 

Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 

Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovel}' head, 

And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks, amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's gnost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe. 
Rage nerves his arm. Fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain, beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds. 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the Hero's grasp tiU Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved. 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom, sought his wonted place. 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace . 

Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim. 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire ; 
No future day shall see your names expire • 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions haU their Empress, Rome 

TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES. 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge, 

W^hich rolls the tide of human woe ? 
The hope of praise, the dread of chame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, the guilty fiamn, 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But, if aflfection gently thrills 

The soul, by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills. 

In love can soothe the aching breast ; 
If thus, thou comest in gentle guisb 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
What heart, unfeeling, would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ' 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



16 



But, never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire, 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire ; 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 

With others wage eternal war ; 
Repentance ! source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far. 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all the hours be wing'd with joy, 

Which hover faithful hearts above ' 
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine, 

May I with some fond lover sigh ! 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine. 

With me to live, with me to die. 

My native soil ! beloved before, 

Now dearer, as my peaceful home. 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam ; 
This very day, this very hour. 

May I resign this fleeting breath, 
Nor quit my silent, humble bower — 

A doom, to me, far worse than death. 

Ha\e I not heard the exile's sigh, 

And seen the exile's silent tear? 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A pensive, weary wanderer here : 
Ah! hapless dame! ' no sire bewails, 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores. 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps, within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend ! whose iron hea't, 

To fair affection's truth unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
Who ne'er unlocks, with silver key, * 

The milder treasures of his soul ; 
May such a friend be far from me. 

And Ocean's storms between us roll ! 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION. =» 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears ; 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god. 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod ; 



1 Medea, who accompanied Jaison to Corinth, was deserted 
by him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The Chorus 
from which this is taken, here address Medea; though a con- 
Biderablc liberty is taken with the original, by expanding the 
idea, as also in some other parts of the translation. 

2 The original is '^KaOapav avoi^avri KXd^a (ppeviJov l''^ 
literally " Disclosing the bright key of the mind." 

3 No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned 
under the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as per- 
forming an unavoidable function of his office: indeed such an 
attempt could only recoil upon myself; as that gentleman is 
rtow as much distinguished by his eloquence, and the dignified 
propriety with which he fills his situation, as he was, in his 
rouneer days, for wit and conviviality 



As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom. 
His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome, 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth ! in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skiU'd an EngUsh line to pen. 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What ! though he knows not how his fatheis bled, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead ; 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; 
Though, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can teU what edicts sage Lycurgus made. 
While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid j 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, 
Class-honours, medals, fellowsnips, await ; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize. 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But, lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope : 
Not that our Heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire. 
A marmer clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try, by speaking, to convince : 
Be other orators of pleasing proud, 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd ; 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan ; 
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen, 
The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; 
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man, who hopes t' obtain the promised Chp, 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word. 
No matter what, so it can not be heard — 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest ! 
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best ' 
Who utters most within the shortest space. 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, v^ho, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where, on Cam's sedgy banks, supine they lie, 
Unknown, unhonour'd live, — unwept for, die ; 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls ; 
In manners rude, in foohsh forms precise. 
All modern arts affecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Bentlky's, Brunch's, ' or PoRSOjt £ * 

note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote , 
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale. 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale, 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel. 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 't is Pitt or P — tty rules the hour • ^ 



1 Celebrated critics. 

'2 The present Greek professor at Trinitv College, Cam 
bridge ; a man whose powers of mind and wrlHngs ma? ;vfci, 
haps justify their preference. 

3 Since this was written Lord II. P vhaa '■>«« hisolac* 



IG 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
Wlule distant mitres to their eyes are spread ; 
IJut should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
They 'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, 
Such is their practice, such is their reward ; 
riiis much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the pric*> they pay. 



TO THE EARL OF * + *. 



' to semper am oris 
Sis memor, et cari comifis ne abscedat imago." 

VALERIUS FLACCUS. 



Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
Like striplings mutually beloved. 

With Friendship's purest glow ; 
The bliss which wmg'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems, alone, 
Dearer than all the joys I 've known, 

When distant far from you ; 
Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again. 

And sigh agaui, adieu! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more. 

Those scenes regretted ever ; 
The measure of our youth is full. 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams, which from one fountain rise. 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from tlieir source, 
Each murmuring seeks anothei course, 

TiU mingled in the main. 

Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
Though near, alas ! distinctly tlow. 

Nor mingle as before ; 
Now swifl or slow, now black or clear. 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, my Friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in different channels ; 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'T is yours to mix in polish'd courts. 

And shine in Fashion's armals. 

*Tis mine to waste on j/ove my time. 
Or vein my reveries hi rhyme. 

Without the aid of Reason ; 
Vor Sense and Reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet. 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

%tia subsequently (I had ■<\\vnost said cons equsnthj) thehoneur 
»f rppresenting the ITiiiversiiy ; a fact so glaring requires no 



Po(^r Little! sweet, melodious bard. 
01 late esteem'd it monstrous hard, 

That he, who sang before all ; 
He, who the love of Love expanded, 
J{y dire reviewers should be branded, 

As void of wit and moral. ^ 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thme. 
Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot ; 
Thy soothing lays may still be read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead. 

And critics are forgot. 

Still, I must yield those worthies merit, 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit. 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
And though myself may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

I really wiU not fight them ; '• 

Perhaps they would do quite as well. 
To break the rudely-sounding shell 

Of such a young begimier ; 
He who offends at pert nineteen. 
Ere thirty, may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now , I must return to you. 

And sure apologies are due ; 

Accept then my concession ; 

In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, 

I soar along from left to right; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 't would be your fate 
To add one stai- to roj'-al state ; 

May regal smiles attend you ; 
And should a noble IMonarch reign. 
You will not seek his smiles in vain. 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet, since in danger courts abound. 
Where specious rivals glitter round. 

From snares may saints preserve you ; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care, 

But those who best deserve you. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From Truth's secure unerring way ; 

May no delights decoy ; 
O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love. 

Your tears be tears of joy. 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless. 

And virtues crown your brow ; 
Be still, as you were wont to be. 
Spotless as you 've been known to me, 

Be, still, as j'ou are now. 



1 These Stanzas were written soon after the appea.ance of 
a severe critique in a Northern review, on a now publicatioD 
of the British Anacreon 

2 A Bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortSi 
combat. If this example beconits prevalent, our periodi-al 
censors must be dipped in the river Styx, for what else cur 
secure them from the numerous jiost of tlieir enragpd assaii 
anm 1 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



17 



And though some trifling share of praise, 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear ; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I 'd waive at once a Poet^s fame, 

To prove a Prophet here. 



GRANTA, A MEDLEY. 



Oh! could Le Sage's J demon's gift 

Be realized at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he 'd lift, 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 
Then would, unroof 'd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawn, or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 
Then would I view each rival wight, 

P_tty and P_lm— st— n survey ; 
Who canvass there with all their might. 

Against the next elective day. 
Lo ! candidates and voters lie, 

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number ! 
A race renown'd for piety. 

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber 

Lord H , indeed, may not demur, 

Fellows are sage, reflecting men ! 
They know preferment ca occur 

But very seldom, — now and then. 
They know the Chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal ; 
Each hopes that one may be his lot. 

And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. 
Now, from the soporific scene 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view, unheeded and unseen. 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp. 
The candidate for college prizes 

Sits poring by the midnight lamp. 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

He, surely, well deserves to gain them. 
With all the honours of his college. 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them. 

Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge ; 

Who sacrifices hours of rest. 

To scan, precisely, metres Attic, 

Or af'itates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic ; 

Who reads false quantities m Sele,^ 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle. 

Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 

In barbarous Latin =* doom'd to wrangle ; 



1 The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the 
demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation and un- 
roofs the houses for his inspection. . , . , 

« «ele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable 
taleni and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult 
a work, is not remarkable for accurao 

3 The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not 
very intelligible. 

o 



Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 

The square of the hypothemise. ' 
Still, harmless are these occupations. 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations. 

Which bring together the hnprudcnt ; 
Whose daring revels shock the sight. 
When vice and infamy combine. 
When drunkenness and dice unite. 

And every sense is steep'd in wuie. 
Not so the methodistic crevi-. 

Who plans of reformation lay : 
In humble attitude they sue. 

And for the sins of others pray. 
Forgetting that their pride of spirit. 
Their exultation in their ti ial. 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 
'Tis morn,— from these I turn my sight: 

What scene is this which meets the eye 1 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white, ^ 
Across the green in numbers fly. 
Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell ; 

'Tis hush'd: What sounds are these I heai 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the listenmg ear. 
To this is join'd the sacred song, 

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 
Though he who hears the music long 

Will never wish to hear again. 
Our choir would scarcely be excused. 

Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
AH mercy, now, must be refused, 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 
If David, when his toils were ended. 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him 
To us his psalms had ne'er descended. 

In furious mood he would have torn 'enu 
The luckless Israelites, when taken. 

By some inhuman tyrant's order. 
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken. 
On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh ! had they sung in notes like these. 

Inspired by stratagem or fear. 
They might have set their hearts at ease— 

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 

But, if I scribble longer now. 

The deuce a soul will stay to read , 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 

'T is ahnost time to stop indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires, 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
No more thy theme my INIuse inspires 

The reader 's tu-ed, and so am 1. 



1 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of inr 
hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides o' 
a right-angled triangle. 

2 On a Saint day. the students wear surplices id chaoe' 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LACHIN Y GAIR. 



Lachiiiy Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na 
Garr towers proudly pre-eminent in the JNorthern High- 
lands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists men- 
tions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain ; 
be th»s as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime 
aiid picturesque amongst our " Caledonian Alps. Its ap- 
pearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat ot 
eternal snows: near Lachin y Gair I spent sonrie ot the 
early part of my life, the recoLection ot which has given 
birth to the following Stanzas. 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains. 

Round their white summits though elements war, 
Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
Ah ! there my yotmg footsteps in infancy wander'd. 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; ^ 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory jtonder'd, 

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade ; 
1 sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
For Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
" Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. 

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: 
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormj'- mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car ; 
Clouds tliere encircle the forms of my fathers — 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr: 
*' lU-starr'd, ^ though brave, did no visions foreboding 

Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause ?" 
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, ' 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause ; 
Still were you happj^, in death's early slumber 

You rest with j^our clan, in the caves of Braemar,* 
The Pibroch * resounds to the piper's loud nmnber 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 
Years have roll'd on. Loch na Garr, since I left you ; 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 

Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's plain : 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar ; 
Oh ! for the crags that are wild and majestic, 

Tne steep-frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr! 



1 This word is erroneously pronounced plad ; the proper 
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the 
orthography, 

2 1 allude here to my maternal ancestors, " the Gordons," 
many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, 
better known hy the name of the Pretender. This branch was 
nearly allied by blood, as well as attactiment, to the Stewarts. 
George, tho second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess 
Annabella Stewart, daughter of James the First of Scotland; 
by her he .eft four sons : the third. Sir William Gordon, I 
liavethe honour to claim as one of my progenitors. 

3 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not 
r.t'Ttain ; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the 
Miime «if the principal action, " pars pro toto." 

4 A tract of the Highlands so '-ailed ; there is also a Castle 
»i< Bracmar 

i The RdKpipe. 



TO ROINUNCE. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys ! 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth : 
No more I tread thy mystic i ound. 

But leave thy realms for those of Trutli. 

And yet, 'tis hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
Wliile Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue, 
When virgins seem no longer vain. 

And even woman's smiles are true. 
And must we own thee but a name. 

And from thy hall of clouds descend ; 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

APj^ades^ in every friend ? 
But leave, at once, thy realms of air, 

To mingling bands of fairy elves : 
Confess that woman's false as fair, 

And friends have feelings for — themselves. 

With shame, I own I 've felt thy sway, 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er j 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar : 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkhng eye. 

And think that eye to Truth was dear, 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh. 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear. 
Romance ! disgusted with deceit. 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Where AflTectation holds her seat, 

And sickly Sensibility; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine ; 
Who turns aside from real woe. 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine : 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in wieds 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female quire, 

To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
Who once could glow with equal fire. 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears, 

On all occasions, swiftly flow; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied tears, 

With fancied flames and phrenzy glow; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name. 

Apostate from your gentle train { 
An infant Bard, at least, may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 



1 It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of 
Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with th.s.-.f 
Achilles and Patrocles, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Py'"'^^' '^;;" 
been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachn enU 
which, in all pr-.bab.lity, never existed, beyond the .magiuation of l^ 
poet, the page of a historian, or modern uovehst. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



19 



Adieu ! fond race, a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
Even now the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather, 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.' 



It is the voice of years that are gone ! 
with all their deeds. 



they roll before me 
OSSIAN. 



Newstead ! fast falling, once resplendent dome ! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's ^ pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb. 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide : 

Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall, 
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
Scowling defiance on the blast of fate. 

No mail-clad serfs, ^ obedient to their lord. 
In grim array, the crimson cross ^ demand : 

Or gay assemble round the festive board. 
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. 

Else might inspiring Fancj^'s magic eye 

Retrace their progress, through the lapse of tmie ; 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime. 

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief, 

His feudal realm in other regions lay ; 
In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief. 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profounc^ 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; 

Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting solace found. 
Or innocence from stern Oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise. 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl; 

And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes. 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exliales a murky dew. 

The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, 
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew. 

Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray. 
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 

Soon as the gloaming ^ spreads her waning shade, 
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 

Or matin orisons to Mary ^ paid. 



Years roll on years— to ages, ages yield- 
Abbots to abbots in a line succeed, 
Religion's charter their protecting shield. 
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 
One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls, 

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace 
Another Henry ' the kind gift recalls. 

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer, 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode. 
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair. 

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. 
Hark ! how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 

High-crested banners, wave tliy walls within. 
Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth offcasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, 

Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
An abbey once, a regal fortress ^ now. 
Encircled by insulting rebel powers ; 
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
Ah ! vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege. 

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave -, 
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege. 

Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 
Not unavenged, the raging baron yields. 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; 
Unconquer'd still his falchion there he wields. 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 
Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; 
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save, 
Trembhng she snatch'd him ^ from the unequal strife. 

In other fields the torrent to repel. 
For nobler combats here reserved his life. 

To lead the band where godlike Falkland '^ fell. 
From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 

While dying groans their painful requiem sound. 
Far different incense now ascends to heaven — 

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 

Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould ; 
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead. 
Raked from repose, in search of buried gold. 



1 As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, 
the author had originally no intention of inserting the follow- 
ing: it is now added at the particular request of some friends. 

2 Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of 
Thorn as-a-Becket. 

3 This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, " The 
Wild Huntsman," as synonymous with Vassal. 

4 The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. 

5 As " Gloaming," the Scottish word for Twilight, is far 
more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent 
literary men, particularly Dr. Moore, in his Letters to Burns, 
1 have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. 

6 The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin 



1 At the dissolution of ihe Monasteries, Henry VIII. be 
stowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

2 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war be 
tween Charles I. and his Parliament. 

3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high com 
mands in the royal arm> ; the former was General in Chief in 
Ireland, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to James 
Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The iatlei 
had a principal share in many actions. Vide Clarendon 
Hume, etc. 

4 Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most acconi 
plished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Ncwbcrrv 
charging in the ranks of 1 ord Byron's regiment ^f cavH.r» 



^c 



BYRON'S WORKS 



[Ii.sh'd is the harp, unstrung the warUke lyre, 

The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, 

Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 
At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 

Retire — the clamour of the fight is o'er; 
Silence again resumes her awful sway. 

And sable Horror guards the massy door. 
Here Desolation holds her dreary court ; 

What satellites declare her dismal reign! 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort 

To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 

The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; 
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 

And Nature triumphs as the t3Tant dies. 
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans, 

Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath ; 
Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones, 

Loathing ' the offering of so dark a death. 
The legal Ruler- now resumes the helm. 

He guides tlirough gentle seas the prow of state : 
Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, 

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. 

The gioomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, 

Howling resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells. 

Enjoy' d, from absence, with enraptured zest. 

Vassals within thy hospitable pale, 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 
A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
And, hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 

The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 

What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase ! 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, 

Exultmg shouts announce the finish'd race. 
Ah ! happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
No splendid vices ghtter'd to allure — 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
From these descending, sons to sires succeed. 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 
Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
Deserted now, ho scans thy gray-worn towers — 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep — 



1 This is a historical fact. A vioi'ent tempest occurred im- 
mcfliately subsequent to the death, or intermen', of Cromwell, 
which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and 
*he cavaliers ; both interpreted the circumstance into divmo 
(iteri'osiiion, but whether as approbation or condemnation, 
wp loairc 1.0 the e 'lists of that age to decide. I have made 
uuch uaP o( theioccurrence as suited the subject of my pi -'em. 

5/ Charles 11. 



Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers — 

These, these he views, and views them but to weep 
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret, 

Cherislvd affection onlj' bids them flow ; 
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget. 

But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 
Yet, he prefers thee to the gilded domes. 

Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great ; 
Yet Ungers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 

Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate 
Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine. 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine. 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



TO E. N. L. ESQ 



Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico. 

HOR. E 

Dear L , in this sequester'd .^cene. 

While all around in slumber lie. 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye : 
Thus, if amidst the gathering storm, 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurking envious fear intrude. 
To check my bosom's fondest thought. 

And interrupt the golden dream ; 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme ; 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, 
Nor, through the groves of Ida, chase 

Our raptured visions as before ; 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinioh. 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion, 
Age will not every hope destroj^. 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 
Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wmg 
Will shed around some dews of spring ; 
But, if his sc5'the must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers. 
Where smiUng Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts A-ith early rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, with cold control. 
Confines the current of the soul. 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh. 
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan. 
And bids me feel for self a'.one ; 
Oh ! may my bosom never learn, 

To sooth its wonted heedless flow, 
•Still, still, despise the censor stem, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 



iIOURS OF iDLEXESS 



21 



Still may I rove untutor'd, ■n-ild, 
And even in age at heart a child. 
Though now on airy visions borne, 
To vou my soul is still the same, 
Ofl has it been my fate to mourn, 

And all my former joj's are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue, 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrow 's o'er ; 
By ever}' bliss my cliildhood knew, 

I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the wliirlwind's rage is past. 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 
Wlien lull'd by zephyr to repose. 
FuU often has my infant 3Iuse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now, without a theme to choose, 
The strains in stolen sighs expire ; 
]My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flovMi ; 

"E is a viife, and C a mother. 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary 's given to another ; 
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, 
Can now no more my love recall ; 

In truth, dear L , 't was time to flee. 

For Cora's eye will shine on aU. 
And though the sun, ^vith genial rays. 
His beams alike to aU displays. 
And ever)' lady's ejeh a sun, 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her 
Whose sun displays a general summer. 
Thus faint is every former flame. 
And Passion's self is now a name : 
As, when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And bade them bum with fiercer glow. 

Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires. 
As many a boy and girl remembers, 
While aU the force of love expires, 
Extinguish'd with the dj-ing embers. 

But now, dear L , 't is midnight's nocn, 

And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse ; 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
W hich every bard has trod before ? 
Vet, ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform'd her stated roimd, 
Has thrice retraced her path of Ught, 

And chased away the gloom p(;ofound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend. 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
And then, with those our childhood knew. 
We '11 mingle wth the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away; 
And all the flow of soul shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower. 
Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Mom. 



TO . 

Oh I had mj' fate been jom'd with thine, 

As once this pledge appear'd a token, 
These foUies had not then been mine. 

For then my peace had not been broken. 
To thee these early faults I owe, 

Tc thee, the \vise and old reproving ; 
They know my sins, but do not know 

'T was tliine to break the bonds of loving. 
For once my soul, like thine, was pure. 

And all its rising fires could smother ; 
But now thy vows no more endure, 

Bestow'd by thee upon anotlier. 
Perhaps his peace I could destroy. 

And spoil the bUsses that await liim; 
Yet, let ray rival snule in joy. 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 

INIy heart no more can rest with any ; 
But what it sought in thee alone. 

Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 

'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
Nor hope nor memor}' jield their aid, 

But pride may teach me to forget thee. 
Yet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures. 
These varied loves, these matron's fears, 

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures 
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd ; 

This cheek, now pale from early riot. 
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet. 

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 
And once rjy breast abhorr'd deceit. 

For then it beat but to adore thee. 
But now I seek for other joys ; 

To think would drive my soul to madness • 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 

In spite of every vain endeavour ; 
And fiends might pity what I feel. 

To kno «• that thou art lost for ever. 

STANZAS. 
I WOULD I were a careless child, 

Still dwelHng in my highland cave. 
Or roaming through the duskj' -uild. 

Or boundmg o'er the dark-blue wave. 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon ' pride 

Acoords not with the free-lx:m soul. 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 
Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound I 
I hate the touch of servile hands — 

11 ate the slaves that cringe around : 



1 Sasienah, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying cithei 'iO» 
land or Efiglish. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Place me along the rocks I love, 

VVhich sound to ocean's wildest roar ; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 
Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me ; 
Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss ; 
Truth ! wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a wor d like this ? 
I loved — but those 1 loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my ear.y friends are fled ; 
How cheerless feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill, 
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still. 
How dull to hear the voice of those 

Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few. 

In years and feehngs stili the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew. 

Where boist'rous Joy is but a name. 
And Woman ! lovely Woman, thou, 

]My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now. 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

Th\s busy scene of splendid woe, 
To make that calm contentment mine 

Which Virtue knows, or seoms to know. 
Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the ^vings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, 

To flee away and be at rest.' 

LINES 

WKirTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD 

OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 

SEPT. 2, 1807. 

fepoT of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh. 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod. 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore. 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
'Vhoa drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay, 
And freauent nm?ed the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
I5at ah' without the thoughts which then were mine : 

I Psalm Iv. v. 6.—" And I said, Oh ! that I had wings like 
a dove, then would I fly away and be at rest." This verse 
Mf-o constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our 
Anguaee 



How do thy branches, moaning to the blast. 
Invite the bosom to recall the past ; 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
"Take, while thou can'st, a lingering last fareweU '" 
When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought 't would soothe my d5ing hour. 
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power. 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die— 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie ; 
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose, 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose : 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd, 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved j 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here, 
Deplored by those in early days allied. 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORIA. 

uln imitation of JMacpherson^ s Ossian.^ 

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their re- 
membrance through the mist of time. In the twilight 
he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear 
with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did I false the 
steel before my fathers !" Past is the race of heroes ! 
but their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride on 
the wings of the wind ! they hear the sound through 
the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall ot 
clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks dov.n from eddying tempests, 
he rolls his form in the whirlwind ; and hovers on the 
blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. 
His steps in the field were marked in blood ; Lochlm's 
sons had fled before his angry spear : but mild was the 
eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his yellow locks — 
they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid 
was the sigh of his soul ; his thoughts were given to 
friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! 
Equal w^ere their swords in battle ; but fierce \vas the 
pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they 
dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fmgal roused his 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Their 
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies , 
but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. Tho 
sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They 
lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the 
host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Cal- 
mar stood by his side. Their spears were m their hands. 
Fingal called his chiefs. They stood arounc'. The kirjg 
was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was 
the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers 



1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though 
considerably varied in the catastrophe, i? taken from " NisuB 
and Euryalus," of which episode a translation has bcei! ^ 
ready given. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



23 



" Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet 
the foe; but %Yhere is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? 
He rests in the halls of Tura ; he knows not of our 
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, 
and call the chief to arms ? The path is by the swords 
of foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts 
of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! who will arise?" 

" Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark- 
haired Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to me? 
I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne 
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay 
me by the stream of Lubar."— "And shalt thou fall 
alone ?" said fair -haired C almar. " Wilt thou leave thy 
friend afar, Chief of Oithona? not feeble is my arm in 
fight. Could I see thee die, and not Uft the spear? No, 
Oria ! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the 
feast of shells ; ours be the path of danger : ours has 
been the cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling 
on the banlcs of Lubar." — " Cabnar !" said the cliief of 
Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened 
in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father 
dwells in his hall of air : he ^^^I1 rejoice in his boy : but 
the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in 
Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the 
heath, and thinks it is the tread of C almar. Let him 
not say, ' C almar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin ; he 
died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' 
Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora ? Why 
should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Caknar ? 
Live, C almar ! live to raise my stone of moss ; live to 
revenge me in the blood of Lochlin ! Join the song of 
Dards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death 
to Orla, from the voice of C almar. My ghost shall smile 
on the notes of praise." — "Orla!" said the son of 
Mora, ^'^ could I raise the song of death to my friend? 
Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart 
would speak in sighs ; faint and broken are the sounds 
of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. 
One cloud shall be ours on high ; the bards will mingle 
the names of Orla and C almar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are 
to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim 
twinkles through the night. The northern star points 
the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his 
lonely hiU. Here the troops are mked : they frown in 
sleep, their shields beneath their heads. Their swords 
gleam, at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint; tlieir 
embers fail in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale 
sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes 
through the slumbering band. Half the journey is 
past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the 
ej'e of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the 
shade : his spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou 
bend thy brow. Chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired 
Calmar. "We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time 
^r delay ?" — " It is a time for vengearice," said Orla, 
of the gloomy brow. " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest 
thou his spear ? Its point is dim with the gore of my 
father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but 
shall I slay him sleeping, son of jMora? No! he shall 
feel his wound ; my fame shall not soar on the blood 
of slumber. Rise, Mathon ! rise ! the son of Connal calls; 
thy life is his : rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
Bleep, but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering chiefs 
bound on the plain. "Fly, Calmar, fly!" said dark- 



haired Orla : " Mathon is mine ; I shall die m joy ; bu* 
Lochlin crowds around ; fly through the shade of night." 
Orla turns ; the helm of INIathon is cleft : his shield 
falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls 
by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall. 
His wTath rises ; his weapon glitters on the head of 
Orla ; but a spear pierced his eye. His bram gushes 
through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. 
As roll the waves of Ocean on two mighty barks of the 
north, so pour the men of Lochhn on the chiefs. As, 
breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of 
the nortJi, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered 
crests of Lochhn. The din of arms came to the ear ol 
Fingal. He strikes his shield : his sons tlirong around ; 
the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. 
Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The 
eagle \^ing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is 
the clang of death ! many are the widows of Loclibn. 
Morven prevails in his strength. 

JNIorn glimmers on the hills : no li\ing foe is seen 4 
but the sleepers are many : grim they he on Erin. The 
breeze of ocean lifts their locks : yet they do not a^vake. 
The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the 
dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Caknar — he Hes on the 
bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce 
is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but 
his eye is still a flame : it glares in death unclosed. 
His hand is grasped in C almar's ; but C almar lives : he 
lives, though low. "Rise," said ihe king, "rise, son oJ 
Mora, 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar 
may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven 
with Orla;" said the hero, "what were the chase to 
me, alone ? Who would share the spoils of battle with 
Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! 
j^et soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in 
hghtning ; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my swoid 
to blue-eyed Mora : let it hang in my emptj^ hail. It is 
not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay 
me with my friend : raise the song when I am dark." 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The 
Bards raised the song. 

"What form rises on the roar of clouds ! whose dark 
ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice 
rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla ; the brown chief of 
Oithona. He was unmatched in w^ar. Peace to thy soul, 
Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, C almar ! lovely 
wast tliou, son of blue-eyed Mora ; but not harmless 
was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of 
Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmai ! 
it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes 
on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thj^fair locks, son 
of jMora ; spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and 
smile through the tears of the storm." ^ 



1 1 fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every 
hope thatMacpherson's Ossian might prove the Translation of 
a series of Poems, complete in themselves; but, while the im 
posture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, 
thoush not witiiout faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and 
bombastic diction. — The present humble imitation will be par- 
doned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt, nowevef 
inferior, which evinces an attachment /o their favourite author 



u 



BYROXS WORKS. 



CRITIQUE 

EXTRACIED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY 1808. 



Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and 
translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, 
a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200— Newark, 1807. 

The poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class 
which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, 
we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse 
with so few deviations in either direction from that 
exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead 
flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than 
if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation 
of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward 
hi pleading mmorit}^ We have it in the title-page, 
and on the very back of the volume; it follows his 
name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is 
laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected 
with this general statement of liis case, by particular 
dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. 
Now, the laAv upon the point of minority we hold to be 
perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the de- 
fendant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary' 
ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought 
against Lord B5Ton, for the purpose of compellmg him 
to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if 
judgment were given against him, it is highly probable 
that an exception would be taken were he to deliver 
for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he 
might plead minority ; but, as he now makes voluntarj' 
tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that 
ground, for the price in good current praise, should 
the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the 
law on the point, and, we dare to sa)"-, so -will it be ruled. 
Perhaps however, in reaUty, aU that he tells us about 
his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, 
than to soften our censures. He possibty means to saj', 
" See how a minor can write ! This poem was actually 
composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one 
of only sixteen!" — But, alas ! we all remember the poetry 
of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve ; and so far from 
hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor 
verses were written b}' a youth from his leaving school 
to his lea\'ing college, inclusive, we really believe this 
to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- 
pens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in 
England ; and chat the tenth man writes better verse 
than Lord Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings 
forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, 
does allude frequently to his family and ancestors — 
so(f>":times in poetry, sometimes in notes ; and while 
g-nng up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care 
to rememoer us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a 
nobleman appears as an author, liis merit should be 
handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consid- 
eration only, that induces us to give Lord BjTon's poems 
a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, 
that he do forthwith abandon poetrj', and turn his talents, 
:vtiich are considerable^ and his opportunities, which are 
sreat. to better account. 



With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure 
him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even 
when accompanied by the presence of a certain nurabei 
effect; nay, although (wliich does not alwaj's happen) 
those feet should scan regularly, and have been all 
counted accurately upon the fingers, — it is not tho 
whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, 
that a certain portion of hvehness, somewhat of fancy, 
is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in 
the present day, to be read, must contain at least one 
thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas 
of former wTiters, or differentty expressed. We put it 
to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving 
the name of poetry in verses like the following, written 
in 1806 ; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say 
any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a 5'outh of 
nineteen should publish it : 

" Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 

Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. 

" Though a tear dim his eye at tliis sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, thai excites bis regret: 

Far distant he goes, with tlie same emulation-, 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

" That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish. 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.' 

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing bet 
ter than these stanzas in the whole compass of the nobli 
minor's volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have done before him, for 
comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at 
his writing-master's,) are odious. — Gray's Ode on Eton 
College should rccilly have kept out the ten hobbling 
stanzas " On a distant view of the village and school of 
Harrow." 

" Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance. 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers " On 
a Tear,^^ might have warned the nolle author off those 
premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as 
the following : 

" Jlild Charity's glo\^-. 

To us mortals below 
Shows the sou! from barbaiicy c.x-Ai 

Compassion will melt, 

Where this virtue is fe:lt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Toar. 

" The man doom'd to sail 

With the bif.st of the nal*-', 
Through billows Atlantic to steer. 

As he bends o'er the wave, 

Which may soon bo hi» grave, 
The green sparkles brisht >;ith a ear 



CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



25 



A nd so of instances in which former poets had failed. 
I hb?, we do not think Lord Byron was made for trans- 
lating, durmg his non-age, Adrian's Address to his 
Sou , when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the at- 
tempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, 
*hey may look at it. 

" Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite. 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne. 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
No more with wonted humour gay. 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations 
and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. 
We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. 
Only, why print them after they have had their day 
and served their turn ? And why call the thing in p. 79,' 
a translation, where two words {deXo) Xsystv) of the 
original are expanded into four lines, and the other 
thing in p. 81,^ where jiEaovvKTiaig TroQ' lopaig, is ren- 
dered by means of six hobbling verses ? As to his Os- 
sianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in 
truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compo- 
sition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising 
some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to 
express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, 
then, the following beginning of a " Song of Bards" is 
oy his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we 
can comprehend it. " What form rises on the roar of 
clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of 
tempests ? His voice rolls on the thunder ; 't is Orla, the 
bro^vn chief of Oithona. He was," etc. Afler detaining 
this " brown chief" some time, the bards conclude by 
giving him their advice to " raise his fair locks ;" then 
to "spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;" and "to 
smile through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of 
tiling there are no less than nine pages ; and we can so 
far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look 
very like Macpherson ; and we are positive they are 
pretty nearly a« stupid and tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but 
they should "use it as not abusing it ;" and particu- 
larly one who piques himself (though indeed at the 
ripe age of nineteen) of being " an infant bard," 
(" The ardess Helicon I boast is youth;") — should either 
not know, or should seem not to know, so much about 
his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the 
family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven 
pages, on the selfsame subject, introduced with an 
apology, " he certainly had no intention of inserting 
It," but really "the particular request of some friends," 
etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, " the 



1 Set page IC 
f2 



2 Page 11. 



last and youngest of a noble line." There is a gooc". 
deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on 
Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his 
youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a 
bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his 
volume to immortalize his employments at school and 
college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present- 
ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effu- 
sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, 
we have the following magnificent stanzas : 

" There, in apartments small and damp, 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp, 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

" Who reads false quantities in Sele 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 

Deprived of many a wholesome meal. 

In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: 

" Renouncing every pleasing page, 
From authors of historic use. 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 

The square of the hypothenuse. 

" Still harmless are these occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless student. 

Compared with other recreations. 

Which bring together the imprudent." 

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- 
lege psalmody as is contained in the foUowing Attic 
sta,nza.s : 

" Our choir would scarcely be excused 

Even as a band of raw beginners; 
All mercy now must be refused 

To such a set of croaking sinners. 

"If David, when his toils were ended. 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 

In furious mood he would have tore 'em !' 

But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems 
of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as wo 
find them, and be content; for they are the last we 
shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but 
an intruder into the groves of Parnassus ; he never lived 
in a garret, hke thorough-bred poets ; and " though h« 
once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of 
Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. 
Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; 
and, whether it succeeds or not, "it is highly improba- 
ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that he 
should again condescend to become an author. There- 
fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What 
right have we poor devils to be nice ? W'^e are well otf 
to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, 
who does not live in a garret, but, " has the sway " of 
Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful ; 
and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the girer, iwn 
look the gift horse in the mouth. 



i 26 ) 
A. SikTZRE. 



I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Such shameless Bards we have ; and yet, 't is true, 
There are aa mad, abandon'd Critics too. 

POPE 



PREFACE. 



All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to 
be " turned from the career of my humour by quibbles 
quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be ter- 
rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- 
out arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none 
personally who did not commence on the offensive. 
An author's works are public property : he who pur- 
chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; 
and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate 
may do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they 
•mW succeed better in condemning my scribblings than 
in mending their own. But my object is not to prove 
that I can write well, but, if possible, to mcike others 
write better. 

As the Poem has met with far more success than I 
expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 
some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy 
of public perusal. 

In the first edition of this Satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written and inserted at the request of an inge- 
nious friend of mine, who has now in the press a vol- 
ume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, 
and some of my own substituted in their stead ; my 
only reason for this being that which I conceive would 
operate with any other person in the same manner — a 
determination not to publish with my name any pro- 
duction which was not entirely and exclusively my own 
composition. 

With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- 
teal persons whose performances are mentioned or 
alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the 
author that there can be httle difference of opinion in 



than the author, that some known and able wnter hat 
undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. Gifford has de- 
voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nos- 
trum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an 
epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- 
ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is 
to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- 
cover the numerous patients afflicted with the present 
prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a 
Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author succeeds 
in merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," 
though fiis own hand should suffer in the encounter, 
he wUl be amply satisfied. 



ENGLISH BARDS, 

etc. etc. 



Still must I hear? — shall hoarse Fitzgerald' baw 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? 
Prepare for rhyme — I 'U publish, right or wrong : 
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. 

Oh ! Nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride : 
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise ! 



1 This Preface was written for the second edition of this 
Voem, and printed with it. 



forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 



tne public at large; though, like other sectaries, each How frequent is thy use how small thy praise! 

has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 

abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his 

metrical canons received without scruple and without 

consideration. But the unquestionable possession of 

considerable genius by several of the writers here 

censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be 

regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 

lauglied at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand 

the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 



1 IMITATION. 

" Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponan». 

Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri?" — Juvenal. "?a(. 1 
Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the " Small- 
Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the "Lit- 
erary Fund ;" not content with writing, he spouts in person, 
after the company have imbibed a reasorable quantity of bad 
port, to enable them to sustain the operation 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



27 



Our task complete, like Harriet's ' shall be free ; 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway, 
And men, through life her willing slaves, obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time ; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er ail prevail, 
When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, 
E'en then the boldest start from pubHc sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of Wit ! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are tbOies e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race : 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame — 
The cry is up, and Scribblers are my game ; 
Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all ! 
I too can scravd, and once upon a time 
I pour'd along the tovm a flood of rhyme — 
A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame : 
I printed — older children do the same. 
'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. * 
No matter, George continues still to write, ^ 
Though now the name is veil'd from pubhc sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The selfsame road, but make my own review: 
Not seek great Jeffrey's — yet, like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade. 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet. 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : 
Fear not to lie, 't will seem, a lucky hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit j 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we ovm such judgment ? no — as soon 
Seek roses in December, ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chafFj 
j3eli(v« a woman, or an epitaph ; 



Or any other thing that 's false, before 

You trust in critics who themselves are sore ; 

Or yield one single thought to be misled 

By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head. ' 

To these young tyrants, ^ by themselves misplaceu 
Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste ; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law ; 
While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare ; 
While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike. 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

3 Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before, 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise. 
When Sense and Wit with poesy aUied, 
No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side. 
From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim. 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song. 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otwav s 

melt — 
For Nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace. 
When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let Satire's self allow. 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now : 
The loaded press beneath her labour groans. 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves. 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 

Thus saith the preacher, * " nought beneath the sun 
Is new;" yet still from change to change we rim: 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare. 
Till tlie swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ' 
Nor less new schools of poetry arise. 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er Taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 



1 "id Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen in the last 
chapter of Don Quixote. Oh ! that our voluminous gentry 
would follow the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli I 

2 This ingenious youth is mentioned more particularly, with 
h\s production, in another place. 

3 In tlie Edinburgh Review. 



1 Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega. th«^ 
first and last, of the Edinburgh Review : the others are men 
tioned hereafter. 

2 " stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique 

occurrasperituraeparcerechartse." — Juvenal. Sat. I 

3 IMITATION. 
" Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo 
Per quem magnus eques Auruncai tiexit alumnus*. 
Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam." — 

Juvenal. Sai 1 
4 Ecclesiafltes. Chan. 1. 



2'J 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And, liv rling lawful genius from the throne, 

Krects ii shrine and idol of its own ; 

Some leaden calf^ — but whom it matters not, 

From soaring Southev down to groveling Stott. ' 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
For nutice eager, pass in long re^•iew : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace. 
And rh}nTne and blank maintain an equal race ; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
Immeasurable measures move along ; 
For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious Dukess still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrels ^ — may tliey be the last ! 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
Wliile mountain spirits prate to river sprites. 
That dames may listen to their sound at nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's ' brood, 
Decoj' j'oung border-nobles through the wood. 
And skip at everj' step. Lord knows how liigh. 
And frighten foohsh babes, the Lord knov.-s why ; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancmg on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marniion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 

1 Stott, better known in the " Morning Post" by the name 
of Hdfiz. This personage is at present the most profound ex- 
plorer of the bathos. I remember, to the reiening family of 
Portugal, a special ode of Master StotCs, beginning thus • 

(Stott loquitur quoad Hibeniia.) 
"Princely offspring of Braganza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza," etc. etc. 

Also a sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most 

thundering ode commencing as follows: 

" Oh ! for a lay I loud as the surge 
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 

Lord have mercy on usl the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" 

was nothing to this. 

2 See the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was 
any plan so Incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of 
this production. The entrance of Thunder and Lightning pro- 
loguising to Bayes' tragedy, unfortunately takes away the 
merit of originality from the dialogue between IMessieurs the 
Spirits of Flood and Fell, in the first canto. Then we have 
the amiable William of Deloraine, " a stark moss-trooper," 
videlicit, a happy compound of poacher, shecp-stealer, and 
highwayman. The propriety of his magical lady's injunction 
not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledg- 
ment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, al- 
though, to use his own elegant phrase, " 't was his neck-verse 
at Hairibee," i. e. the gallows. 

3 The Biography of Gilpin Homer, and the marvellous pe- 
destrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, 
without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are chefs-d'oeuvre in 
the improvement of taste. For incident we have the invisible, 
but by no means sparing, box on the ear bestowed on the 
liage, and the entrance of a Knight and Charger into the 
i.astle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Mar- 
mion, the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William 
tif Deloraine would have been, had he been able to read or 
write. The Poem was manufactured for Messrs. Constable, 
Murrav, and Miller, worshipful Booksellers, in consideration 
(if the receipt of a sum of money; and, truly, considering the 
mspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Scott will 
write for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, but not 
ili«grace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repeti- 
•ji.n of black letter imitations | 



The gibbet or the field prepared to grace — 

A mighty mixture of the great and base. 

And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 

On public taste to foist thy stale romance. 

Though Murray with his Miller may combine 

To yield thy muse just half-a-cro-wTi per line ? 

No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 

Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade, 

Let such forego the poet's sacred name. 

Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame ; 

Low may they sink to merited contempt, 

And scorn remimerate the mean attempt ! 

Such be theu- meed, such still the just rewara 

Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 

For this we spurn Apollo's venal son. 

And bid a long "good night to Marmion." ' 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow : 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been when yet the muse was young, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Marc sung. 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name : 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years. ^ 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth. 
Tongues have expired with those w^ho gave them bh tb, 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards, content, 
On one great work a life of labour spent: 
With eagle pinions soaring to the skies. 
Behold the ballad-monger, Southev, rise ! 
To him let Camoexs, Milton, Tasso, yield. 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field, 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England, and the boast of France ' 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a mtch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin Phcenk from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, ^ 
Arabia's monstrous, wld, and wondrous son j 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome. 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Shice startled metre fled before thy face. 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race I 
Well might triumphant G enii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 



1 " Good night to Marmion" — the pathetic and also pio- 
phetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death 
of honest Marmion. 

2 As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story cf 
the Iliad, they may almost be classed as one grand historical 
poem. In alluding to Milton and Tasso, we consider the 
"Paradise Lost," and "Gierusalemme Liberata," as theii 
standard efforts, since neither the "Jerusalem Conquered" of 
theltalian, nor the " Paradise Regained" of the English Bard, 
obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former pcemi 
Query : Which of Mr. Soutkey^s will survive ? 

3 Thalaba, Mr Soiithep''s second poem, is written in opeR 
defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce 
something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. Joan of Arp 
was marvellous enough, but Thalaba was one of those poem» 
"which (in the words of Porso??) will be read when Homt» 
and Virgil are forgotten, but — not till then." 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



29 



Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 

Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; 

Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 

IVIore old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 

Oh ! SouTHEV, SouTHEY ! ' cease thy varied song ! 

A Bard may chaunt too often and too long : 

As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! 

A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 

But if, in spite of all the world can say. 

Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 

If still in Berkley ballads, most uncivil, 

Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, ^ 

The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue ; 

*' God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too. ^ 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school. 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favourite May ; 
Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble ; 
And quit his books, for fear of growing double ;" * 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
Poetic souls dehght in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme, 
Contain the essence of the true sublime: 
Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of " an idiot Boy ;" 
A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; * 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
And each adventui-e so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the " idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the Bard the hero of tlie story. 

ShaH gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here. 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse, ^ 



1 We beg Mr. Sonth'!Ji''s pardon : " Madoc disdains the de- 
graded title of epic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded 1 
and by whom? Certainly the late Romaunts of Masters Cottle, 
Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, Hoyle, and gentle IMistress Cowley, 
have not exalted the Epic Mase : but as Mr. Southey'' s poem 
" disdains the appellation," allow us to ask — has he substituted 
any thing better in its stead 1 or must he be content to rival Sir 
Richard Blackmore, in the quantity as well as quality of his 
verse. 

2 See The Old Woman of BerkJoy, a Ballad by Mr. Southey, 
wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, 
on a "high-trotting horse." 

3 Tlie last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism 
from the Anti-jacobin to Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics: 
"God help thee, silly one." — Poetry of the Anti-jacobin, p. 23. 

4 Lyrical Ballads, page 4. — "The tables turned." Stanza 1. 

" Ud, up, my friend, and clear your looks — 

Why all this toil and trouble 1 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 

Or surely you '1! grow double." 

5 Mr. W., in his prefjice, labours hard to prove that prose 
And verse are much the same, and certainly his precepts and 
practice are strictly conformable : 

" .A-nd thus to Betty's questions he 
Made answer, like a traveller bold. 
The cock did crow to-who, to-who. 
And the sun did shine so cold," etc., etc. 

Lyrical Ballads, page 129. 
Coleridse^ s Poems, page IL Songs of the Pixies, i. e. 
ilcvonshire Fairies. Page 4-3, we have, "Lines to a young 
Lddy," and page 52, " Lines to a Young Ass." 



Yet none in lofty numbers can sui-pass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
How well the subject suits his noble mind ! 
"A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind !" 

Oh ! wonder-worldng Lewis ! Monk, or Bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 
Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Th}'^ Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, 
By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band , 
Or tracest chaste description on thy page. 
To please the females of our modest age. 
All hail, M. P. ! ^ from whose infernal brain 
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
At whose command, " grim women" throng in crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 
With " small gray men," — " wild yagers," and what not. 
To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott : 
Again, all hail ! If tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
E'en Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire. 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd. 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst hstening dames are hush'd ? 
'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral in his lay ! 
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er the altar burns ; 
From grosser incense v,'ith disgust she turns : 
Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
She bids thee " mend thy Hne and sin no more." 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such ghttering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strang ford ! with thine eyes of blue, * 
And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue. 
Whose plaintive strain each love- sick Miss admires, 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place 
By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace ? 
Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste 
Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore. 
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy Moore. 

In many marble-cover'd volumes view 
Hayley, in vain attempting something new : 
Whether he spin his comedies in rhjTne, 
Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time, 
His stjde in youth or age is still the same. 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine ' 
At least, I 'm sure, they triumph'd over mine. 



1 "For every one knows little Matt's an .AI. P.'' — prx^ 
Poem to Mr. Lewis, in The Statesman, supposed to be wrii 
ten by Mr. Jekyll. 

2 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may 
refer to " Stransrford's Camoens,^' page 127, note to page /)<!, 
or to the last page of the Edinburgh Review of Strangfonin 
Camoens. It is also to be remarked, that the things givcu iv 
the public as Poems of Camoens, are no more to be founn 'd 
the original Portuguese tlian in the Song of Solomon 



30 



BYRON S WORKS. 



Of " Music's Triumphs'' all who read may swear 
That lu :kless Music never triumph'd there. ' 

INIoravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull Devotion — lo ! ihe Sabbath Bard, 
Scpulcbra. Gkahame, pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
And boldly pilfers from tlie Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms. 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. ^ 

Hail, S}Tnpathy ! thy soft idea brings 
A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
And shows, dissolve! in thine own meltmg tears, 
The maudlin prince of mournful soimeteers. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious BotvLi-s? 
Thou first great orr.cle of tender souls? 
Whether in sighing winds thou seek'st relief, 
Or consolation in a yellow leaf; 
Whether th}' musf most lamentably tells 
What merr)' sounds proceed from Oxford bells, ^ 
Or, still in bells deUghting, finds a friend. 
In every cliime that jingled from Ostend ? 
Ah ! how much juster were thy Muse's bap, 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! stiU blessing and still blest, 
All love thy strain, but ch'ddren like it best. 
'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song. 
To soothe the mania of the eimorous throng ! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
Ere ^liss as j-et completes her infant }-ears : 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain : 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scomest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine : 
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain,"* 
Such as none heard before, or will again ; 
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leak>' ark reposed in mud. 
By more or less, are sung in every book. 
From Captam Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone, but pausing on the road. 
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ; ^ 
And gravely tells — attend each beauteous Miss ! — 
'When first INIadeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
Stick to thy Sonnets, man! at least they sell. 



1 Hai/leu^stwo most notorious verse productions, are " Tri- 
umphs of Temper," and "Triumphs of Music." He has also 
.vritten much comedy in rhyme, Epistles, etc. etc. As he is 
rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recom- 
mend Pope's Advice to Wycherley to Mr. H.'s consideration ; 
viz. "to convert his poetry into prose," which may be easily 
done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet. 

2 Mr. Grohameh&sfionTeA forth two volumes of cant, under 
the name of " Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." 

3 See Bowies'' s Sonnets, etc. — " Sonnet to Oxford," and 
* Stanzas on hearing the Bells of Ostend." 

4 " Awake a louder," etc. etc. is the first line in Bowles's 
Spirit of Discovery ;" a very spirited and pretty Dwarf Epic. 

Among other exquisite lines we have the following: — 

" — A kiss 

Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 

Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power, " etc. etc. 
-That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much 
astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. 

5 The episode above alluded to is the story of "Robert a 
Machiii," and " Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, 
vno performed the kiss above-mentioned, that startled the 
■">.)rlB of Madeira 



But if some new-bom whim, or larger bribe. 

Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe , 

If chance some bard, though once by dunces fpar'U, 

Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 

If Pope, whose fame and genius from the firsr 

Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 

Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan 

The first of poets was, alas ! but man ! 

Rake fi-om each ancient dunghill every pearl. 

Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ; * 

Let all the scandals of a former age 

Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page ; 

Affect a candour which thou canst not feel. 

Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 

Write as if St. Jolm's soul cotild still inspire, 

And do from nate what Mallet- did for liire. 

Oh ! hadst thou lived in tliat congenial time. 

To rave with Densis, and with Ralph to rhyrae,^ 

Throng'd with the rest aroimd his hving head, 

Not raised thy hoof against the Uon dead, 

A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 

And link'd thee to the Dimciad for thy pains. * 

Another Epic ! who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
Bceotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
Imports old stories from tlie Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — aU alive ! 
Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five ! 
Fresh fish firom HeUcon ! who '11 buy ? who '11 buy 7 
The precious bargain's cheap — in faith not I. 
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons deUght, 
Too much o'er bowls of 'rack prolong the night : 
If commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the Lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold ! 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
Oh ! Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name 
To fiU the speaking-trump of future fame ! — 
Oh! Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spread from pen and inkl 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
Oh ! pen perv^erted ! paper misapphed ! 
Had Cottle * still adorn'd the counter's side. 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils. 
Been taught to make the paper wliich he soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or pUed the oar with lusty limb, 
He had not svmg of Wales, nor I of him. 

As Sisj-phus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep. 



•1 Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a book 
seller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hertey 
author of " Lines to the imitator of Horace." 

2 Lord Bolinghroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his 
decease, because the poet had retained some copiesof a v/oife 
by Lord Bolingbroke (the Patriot King), which that splendid, 
but malignant genius, had cdered to be destroyed. 

3 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 
"Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, _ 
Making night hideous — answer him, ye owls I' — Dunciad. 

4 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he 
received 304 ;. : thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easiei 
it is to profit by the reputation of another, than to elevate his 
own. 

5 Mr. Cottle, Jimos or Joseph, I don't know which, but one 
or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now 
writers of books that do not sell, have published a pair ol 
Epics. " Alfred" (poor Alfred ! Pye has been 8 Lim too ' 
and the Fail of " Cambria." 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



3! 



St up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond ! heaves 

Du.l Maurice ' all his granite weight of leaves: 

Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain! 

The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 

That ere they reach the top fall lumbering back again. 

With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, 

liO ! sad Alc^icjs wanders down the vale ! 

Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last, 

His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 

Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales. 

His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 

O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; 

May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! 2 

Yet say ! why should the Bard at once resign 
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine ? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl : 
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat. 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat ? ^ 

Health to immortal Jeffrev ! once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same : 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just. 
Some think that Satan has resigned his trust, 
And given the Spirit to the world again. 
To sentence letters as he sentenced men ; 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw. 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool, 
Wlio knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before. 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the Judgment Seat. 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
" Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
This cord receive — for thee reserved with care, 
To yield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
lo flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in his future wars, 
Smce authors sometimes seek the field of Mars J 
Can none remember that eventful day, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 



1 Mr. Mnuriceh&th manufactured the component parts of a 
ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of " Richmond Hill," and 
the like — it also takes in a charming view of Turnham 
Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts 
\djicent. 

2 Poor Montgomery! though praised by every English Re- 
view, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all, 
Ihe Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius : his 
"Wanderer of Switzerland " is worth a thousand "Lyrical 
Ballads," and at least fifty " degraded Epics " 

3 Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 



When Little's leadless pistol met his eye. 

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughmg by ? > 

Oh day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 

Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 

Dark roU'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 

Low groan'd the startled whirl wmds of the north ; 

Tweed ruffled half his wave to form a tear, 

The other half pursued its calm career ; ^ 

Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 

The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place ; 

The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 

On such occasions, feel as much as man — 

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms 

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms : ^ 

Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn, 

The sixteenth storey, where himself was born, 

His patrimonial garret fell to ground. 

And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound ; 

Strew'd were the streets around with mUk-white reams 

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; 

This of his candoui- seem'd the sable dew. 

That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue. 

And all with justice deem'd the two combined 

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 

But Caledonia's Goddess hover'd o'er 

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moobe, 

From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 

And straight restored it to her favourite's head : 

That head, with greater than magnetic power. 

Caught it, as Danae the golden shower; 

And, thoughthe thickening dross will scarce refine. 

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 

"My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again, 

Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 

O'er politics and poesy preside. 

Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 

For, long as Albion's heedless sons submit. 

Or Scottish taste decides on Enghsh wit. 

So long shall last thine unmolested reign. 

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 

Behold a chosen band shall aid thy plan. 

And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 

First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen 

The travell'd Thane ! Athenian Aberdeen. * 

Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer,^ and soinetimes, 

In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rh}Tnes. 



1 In 180fi, Messrs. Jeffrey and JMoore met at Chalk-Fann. 
The duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy; 
and, on examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage 
of the combatants, were found to have evaporated. This inci- 
dent gave occasion to much v/aggery in the daily prints. 

2 The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it would 
have been highly reprehensible in the English half of the river 
to have shown the smallest symptom of apprehension. 

3 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth cthe 
principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been 
most affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. U 

as to be apprehended, that the many unhappy criminals exe- 
cuted in the front, might have rendered the edifice more cal- 
lous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy 
of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like most 
feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 

4 His lordship has been much abroad, is a member ot the 
Athenian Society, and reviewer ofGell's Topography of Troy. 

5 Ml. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic arid other poetry. 
One of the principal pieces is a " Song on the recovery of Thor'a 
Hammer-" the translation is a pleasant cLaunt in the vulgai 
tongue, and ended thus : — 

" Instead of money and rings, [wot. 
The hammer's bruises were her lot; 
Thus Odin's son his hamniet got ' 



3=! 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Smug SvDXEY ' too thy bitter page shall seek, 

And classic H.vr.i.AM,^ imich renown'd for Greek. 

Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 

And paltry Pilt.axs^ shall traduce his friend: 

While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,* 

As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. 

Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 

Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 

\Vhile giateful Britain yields the praise she owes 

To Holland's hirelings, and to Learning's foes. 

Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review 

Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 

Beware lest blundering Broltgham^ destroy the Scde, 

Tum beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 

Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 

Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.^ 

Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, 

His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 

Holland, with Henry Petty at his back. 

The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 

Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 

Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 

Long, long beneath that hospitable roof. 

Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 

See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 

Resume his pen, review his lordship's work, 

And, grateful to the founder of the feast. 

Declare his landlord can translate, at least I ' 

Dunedin ! view thy children with delight. 

They write for food, and feed because they write: 

And lest, when heated with th' unusual grape. 

Some glowmg thoughts should to the press escape. 



1 The Rev. Sidney Smith, the reputed author of Peter 
Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. 

2 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's Taste, and v/as ex- 
ceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein: it was not dis- 
covered that the lines were Pindar's, till the press rendered it 
impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlast- 
ing monument of Hallam'' s ingenuity. 

The saidHallam is incensed, because be is falsely accused, 
seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, 
I am sorry — not for having said so, but on his account, as I 
understand his lordship's feasts are preferable to his composi- 
tions. If he did not review Lord Holland's performance, I am 
glad, because it must have been painful to read, and irksome 
to piaise it. If JMr. Hallam will tell me who did review it, the 
real name shall find a place in the text, provided nevertheless 
the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will 
come into the verse ; till then, Hallam must stand for want of 
a better. 

3 Pillavs is a tutor at Eton. 

4 The Hon. G. I.ambe reviewed " Bei-esford's Miseries," 
and is moreover author of a farce enacted with much ap- 
plause at the Priory, Stanmore, and damned with great expe- 
dition at the late Theatre Covenl-Garden. It was entitled 
"Whistle tor it." 

5 IMr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, 
throu^'hout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cavallos, 
has displayed more politics than policy : many of the worthy 
burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed at the infamous 
principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscriptions. 
It seetns that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but 
a borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent 
to Tay. So be it. 

6 I ousht to apologize to the worthy Deities for introducing 
R new Goddess with short petticoats to their notice; but alas I 
what was to be done? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it 
being well known there is no Genius to be found from Clack- 
mannan to Caithness: yet, without supernatural agency, how- 
was Jeli'rey to be saved? The " nruional Kelpies," etc. are 
loo unpoetical, and the "Brownies" and "Gude Neigh- 
Iwuia" (Spirits of a good disposition), refused to extricate 
biin. A Goddt^ss therefore has been called lor the purpose, and 
great ought to be the trnuitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only 
communication lie ever held, or is likely to hold, with any 
iJiiiig heavenly. 

7 Lord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega 
l.nserted in his life of the Author- boih are bepraised by his 
tiginCerested euesl. 



And tinge with red the female reader's cheek. 
My lad3' skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole. ' 

Now to the drama turn : Oh motley sight ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eye invite ! 
Pims, and a prince within a barrel pent,^ 
And Dibdin's nonsense, yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven ! the Roscio mania 's o'er, 
And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please. 
While British critics suffer scenes like these ? 
While Reynolds vents his "dammes," " poohs," and 

" zounds," ^ 
And common-place, and common sense confounds ? 
While Kenny's World, just suffer'd to proceed, 
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed ? 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words ? * 
Who but must mourn while these are all the rage. 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ? 
Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone? 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
Awake, George Colman, Cumberland, awake! 
Ring the alarum-bell, let folly quake ! 
Oh Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let comedy resume her throne again. 
Abjure the mummery of German schools. 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age. 
One classic Drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head 
Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread? 
On those shall Farce display Buffoonery's mask, 
And HooKE conceal his heroes in a cask? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's ga}' designs ; ^ 
Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on, ^ 
While poor John Bull, bevvilder'd with the scene, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 



I 



1 Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed 
her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review: however that 
may be, we know from good authority that the manuscripta 
are submitted to her perusal — no doubt for correction. 

2 In the melo-drame of Tekeli, that heroic rM-ince is clapt 
into a barrel on the stage — a new asylum for distressed heroes. 

3 All these arc favourite expressions of Mr. R. and prom- 
inent in his Comedies, living and defunct. 

4 Mr. T. Sheridan, the new Manager of Drury-lane Theatre, 
stripped the Tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, and exhib- 
ited the scenes as the spectacles of Caractacus. Was this 
worthy of his sire, or of himself? 

5 Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, Scene-Painter to Drury- 
Lane Theatre: as such Mr. S is much indebted to him. 

6 Mr. S. is the illustrious author of the " SlcepJ'ig Beniity ;" 
and some Comedies, particularly " M:i.ds and 'bachelor? ' 
Haccalaurci baculo raagis Quam lauro digni. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



33 



BmI as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Kather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now, ah ! wherefore should we turn 
To what our l"athers were, unless to mourn? 
Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to dulness, do ye fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face 3 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons, ^ 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art, 
To soften maimers, but corrupt the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
To sanction vice and hunt decorum down : 
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
While Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks 
Of hoary marquisses and stripling dukes : 
Let high-born lechers eye the hvely Presle 
Twirl her light hmbs that spurn the needless veil : 
Let AngioUni bare her breast of snow. 
Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe : 
CoUini trill her love- inspiring song, 
Strain her fail* neck and charm the listening throng! 
Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
Reforming saints, too dehcately nice ! 
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave, 
And beer undrawn and beards unmown display 
Your holy reverence for the sabbath-day. 

Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of \dce and folly, Greville and Argyle ! ^ 
Where j'on proud palace, Fashion's hallo w'd fane. 
Spreads wide her portals for tlie motley train. 
Behold the new Petronius ' of the day. 
The arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir. 
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre. 
The song fiom Italy, the step from France, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : 
Each to his humour, — Comus all allows ; 
Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 



1 JValdi and Catalani require little notice, for the visage of 
the one, and the salary of the other, will enable us long to re- 
collect these amusing vagabonds; besides, we are still black 
and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's ap- 
pearance in trowsers. 

2 To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a 
man, I beg leave to state, that it is the Institution, and not the 
Duke of that name, which is here alluded to. 

A gentleman with whom 1 am slightly acquainted, lost in the 
Argyle Kooms several thousand pounds at backgammon. It is 
but justice to the manager in this instance to say, that some 
degree of disapprobation was manifested. But why are tlie 
implements of gaming alio wea in a place devoted to the society 
of both sexes 1 A pleasant thing for the wives and daughters 
of those who are blest or cursed with such connexions, to hear 
the billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in an- 
other ! This is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy 
member of an institution which materially affects the mo'uls 
of the higher orders, while the lovvermay not even move to the 
kound of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance of indictment for 
i-iotous behaviour. 

3 Petronius, " arbiter elegantiarum'' to Nero, " and a very 
oietty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's old Bachelor saith. i 

G If' 



Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made : 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask. 
Nor think of Poverty, except " en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er. 
The audience take their turn upon the floor 5 
Now round the room the circhng dow'gcrs sweep, 
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap : 
The first in lengthened line majestic swim. 
The last display the free, unfetter'd limb : 
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which Nature could not spare • 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease ! 
Where, all forgotten, but the power to please. 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought. 
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught : 
There the blithe yoimgster, just return'd from Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick, 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
And all your hope or wish is to expire, 
Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life. 
And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife. 
Fit consummation of an earthly race 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace. 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death. 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ' 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 
To live like Clodius, ' and like Falkland ^ fall. 
Truth ! rouse some genuine bard and guide his hand, 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
Even I — least thinking of a thoughdess throng. 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost, 
To fight my course through Passion's countless host, 
Whom every path of pleasure's flowery waj' 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal ; 
Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, 
" What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist, in me. 
No matter — when some bard, in virtue strong, 
GiFFORD perchance, shall raise the chastening song. 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him and rejv>ice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise ; though I 
May feel the lash that virtue must apply. 



1 Mutato nomine de te 
Fabula narralur. 
2 I knew the late Lord Falklmd well. On Snnday night 1 
beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride 
of hospitality ; on Wednesday morning at three o'clock, 1 saw, 
stretched before me, all that remained of couriige, Riolina-. nn(< 
a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful oiTn'iT; 
his faults were the faults of a sailo ■ -as such, Britons will Ibr- 
give them. He died like a brave man in a better cause, for had 
he fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate \r which he 
was just appointed, his last momentf would havft been hieW 
up by his counti^mcn as an examp'v) '.o succeeding her<i»!B 



34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As for the a nailer fry, who swarm in shoals, 
From sil y Ha fiz ' up to simple Bowles, 
VVhy should we call them from their dark abode, 
fn broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham road? 
Or (smce some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the Square ? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
JNIost wisely doom'd to shun the public sight. 
What harm ? in spite of every critic elf, 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles An^dxews still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards : such things at times befall. 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes ? 
Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noble head j 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle: 
The puny school-boy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse. 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse ? 
What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
Lord, rh)Tnester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer ! * 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage : 
But managers for once cried "hold, enough!" 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuJ". 
Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
And case his volumes m congenial calf: 
Yes I doff that covering where morocco shines. 
And hang a calf-skin^ on those recreant lines. 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead. 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread. 
With you I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen, 
Want j^our defence, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox. regale your crew, 
And Melville's Mantle * prove a blanket too ! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. 
And peace be with you ! 't is your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give. 
Could bid your lines beyond a monang live ; 
But now at once your fleeting labours close, 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkuidly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade. 



1 What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, 
Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, 
where he reposes wilh Ferduusi and Sadi, the Oriental Homer 
and Catullus, and behold his name assumed by one Stott of 
Droinore,Ute most impudent and execraWe of literary poach- 
ers for the daily prints "? 

2 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny 
pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan for 
building' a new theatre : it is to be hoped his lordship will be 
permuted to bring forward any thing for the stage, except his 
own tragedies. 

3 • Doff that lion's hide. 
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant iimbs." 

Sknks. King John. 
Limd C. s works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicu- 
acs ornament to his book-shelves: 

"The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
* Jifelville'« Munile, a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 



Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
Leave wandering comprehension far behind,' 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, 
Some stragglers skirmish roimd their columns still. 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.2 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall. 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, 
Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud ! 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jesl, 
'T is sheer ill-nature, don't the world know best ? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme. 
And Capel Lofft ' declares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade : 
Lo! BiTRNs and Bloomfield,'* na.y, a greater far, 
GiFFORD was bom beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
Sterrmi'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over Fate. 
Then why no more ? if Phoebus smiled on you, 
Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too? 
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized ; 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: 
And now no boor can seek his last abode. 
No common be inclosed, without an ode. 
Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic and mechanic soul : 
Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong. 
Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
So shall the fair your handiwork peruse ; 
Your sonnets sure shall please — pernaps your shoes 
May Moorland ^ weavers boast Pindaric skill. 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
Ajid pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
Neglected Genius ! let me turn to you. 
Come forth. Oh Campbell !^ give thy talents scope,- 
WTio dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last. 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 



1 This lovely little .Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew 

K , seems to be a follower ol tiie Delia Crusca School, 

and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities 
in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry novels in the style of the 
first edition of the Monk. 

2 These are the signatures of various worthies who figure 
in the poetical dtpartments of the newspapers. 

3 Capel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of .shoemakers, and 
Preface-writer general to distress'd versemen ; a kind of gratis 
accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rliyme, but 
do not know how to bring it forth. 

4 See JSTathanicl Bloomjield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or 
any one else chooses to call it, on the inclosure of " Honing- 
lon Green." 

5 Vide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Jloorlands oi 
Staffordshire." 

It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the rcadei 
the author of "The Pleasures of IVIemory," and "TliePlcjis- 
ures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our lan- 
guage, if we except Pope's Essay on Man: but so many 
poetasters have started up, that even the name? of Camjibdl 
and Rogers are become sUange 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



3j 



Aiise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 

And strike to wonted tones thy haUow'd lyre ! 

Restore Apollo to his vacant tlirone, 

Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 

What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 

Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 

Unless, perchance, from his cole bier she turns, 

To deck the turf that wraps her rnlnstrel. Burns ! 

No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood 

The race who rhyme from foUy, or for food ; 

Yet still some genuine sons, 't is her's to boast, 

Who, least affecting, still effect the most ; 

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 

Bear witness, Gifford, Sotheby, Macneii,.' 

"Why slumbers Gifford ?" once was ask'd in vain:^ 
Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again: 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 
Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
Shall peers or princes tread Pollution's path, 
And 'scape alike the law's and Muse's ^vrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White ! ■* while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ! 
Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 
*T was thine own genius gave the final blow. 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
So. the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain. 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart : 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion wliich impell'd the steel, 
Wliile the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

There be who say in these enlighten'd days 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
That strain'd invention, ever on the w ing. 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
'T is true that all who rhyme, nay, all who WTite, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite : 



1 Gifford, author of the Baviad and Maeviad, the first satires 
of the day, and translator of Juvenal. 

Sotheby, translator of Wielancfs Oberon and Virgil's 
Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic poem. 

Macneil, whose poems are deser^'edly popular : particularly 
"Scotland's Scaith, or the Waes of War," of which ten 
thousand copies were sold in one month. 

2 Mr. Giffordx>tom\SQA publicly that the Baviad and McBviad 
ehould not be his last original works: let him remember, 

mox in reluctantes dracones." 

3 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October 1806, 
in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies, 
tJiat would have matured a mind which disease and poverty 
could not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than 
subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress 
the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was 
allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred 
functions he was iestined to assume. 



Yet truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires. 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in viilue's name let Craeee attest — 
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Shee ' and genius find a place 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, 
Or pour the easy rhjine's harmonious flow. 
While honours doubly merited attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour ; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has marked alai 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er. 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore : 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
WTio rends the veil of ages long gone by. 
And views the renmants with a poet's eye ! 
Wright ! ^ 't was thy happ}' lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlilce men. 

And you, associate Bards ! ^ who snatch'd to hght 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight ; 
Whose minghng taste combined to cull the wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe. 
And all their renovated fragrance flung. 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue. 
Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse. 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as these, with just applause. 
Restore the Muse's violated laws : 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime. 
That mighty master ot umneaning rhjTne ; 
Whose gilded cymbaJs, more adorn'd than clear. 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear. 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now worn dowTi, appear in native brass ; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around. 
Evaporate in similies and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die • 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. ^ 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
The meanest object of the lowly group. 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle \oid. 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd : * 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teacli 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 



1 Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," and " Elemenis 
of Art." 

2 Mr. Wright, lateConsul-General for the Seven Islands, if 
author of a very beautiful poem just published : it is entitle i 
"Horae lonicas," and is descriptive of the Isles and the adja- 
cent coast of Greece. 

3 The translators of the Anthology have since published 
separate poems, which evince genius that only requires oppor 
tunity to attain eminence. 

4 The neglect of the "Botanic Garden' Is sorne proof o< 
returning taste, the scenery is its sole recommendation. 

5 Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, trt mos' .gnohle foDowtrs « 
Southey and Cu. 



3b 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The native genius with their feeling given 

Will point tlie path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott ! ' resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a Border feud : 
Let ethers spin their meagre lines for hire — 
Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
Prolific every string, be too profuse ; 
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse. 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse; 
Let spectre-raongering Lewis aim at most 
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
liCt Moore be lewd; let Strangford steal from 

Moore, 
And swear tliat Camoens sang such notes of yore: 
Let Havlev hobble on, Montgomery rave. 
And godly Grahame chaunt the stupid slave ; 
Let sonnetteering Bowles his strains refine. 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
Let Stott, Carlisle, 2 jNL^tilda, and the rest 
Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-Place the best, 
Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
Or common sense assert her rights again ; 
But thou, with powers that mock die aid of praise, 
Should'st leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, 
Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field, 
Than the \ale foray of a plundering clan, 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
Or Marmion's acts of darlcness, fitter food 
For outlaw'd Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood ? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard. 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live. 
But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her faded fame recall. 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 



1 By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott^s next poem his hero 
or heroine will be less addicted to "gramarye," and more to 
grammar, than the Lady of the Lay, and her bravo, William 
of Deloraine. 

2 It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, 
my suardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of 
puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship was nomi- 
nal, al least as far as I have been able to discover; the rela- 
tionship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it: but as his 
lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, 
I shall not burthen my memory with the recollection. I do not 
think that personal diflferences sanction the unjust condemna- 
tion of a brother scribbler ; but 1 see no reason why they should 
act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ienoble, has 
for a series of years beguiled a "discerning public" (as the 
advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, 
inipnrial nonsense. Besides, I do not step aside to vituperate 
the Earl ; no — his works come fairly in review with those of 
other patrician literati. If before I escaped from my teens, 1 
said any thing in favour of his lordship's paper books, it was in 
tiio way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of 
withers than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity 
ofpronoiincin? my sincere recantation. I have heard that some 
persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Carlisle: 
if so I sha'l be most particularly happy to learn what they 
are. and when conferred, that thpy may be duty appreciated 
and publicly acknowledtied. What I have hurnbly advanced 
us an opinion on his printed things,! am prepared to support, 
if necessary, by quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, epis- 
odes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies, bearing his 
name and mark: 

•• VVhat can ennable knaves, or fools, or cowards? 
Alas 1 not all tiie blood of ail tlie Howards I" 
So says I'one Amen 



Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope 
To conquer ages, and wtih time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victors ' fill the applauding skies : 
A few brief generations fleet along, 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
E'en now what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast. 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps al last. 
And glorj', hke the phcenLx midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 
Shall these approach tlie muse? ah, no ! she flies. 
And even spurns the great Seatonian prize. 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Ho are, and epic blank by Hotle : 
Not him whose page, if still upheld bj- whist. 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us Hst.^ 
Ye, who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a ftdl-grown ass — 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam. 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 
There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condcmn'd to drudge the meanest of the mean. 
And furnish falsehoods for a magazine. 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind — 
Himself a hving Ubel on mankind.^ 
Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race ! * 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ; 
So sunk in dulness and so lost in shame. 
That Smythe and Hodgson ^ scarce redeem thy fanit 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
On her green banks a greener wTeath is wove. 
To crowTi the bards that haunt her classic grove. 
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
And modem Britons justly praise their sires. ^ 

For me, who thus imask'd have dared to tell 
My country what her sons should know too well, 
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age. 



1 "Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora. '- 
Virgil. 

2 The "Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries oi 
whist, chess, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagaries •■.( 
his poetical namesake, whoso poem comprised, as expressly 
stated in the advertisement, all the "Plagues of Egypt." 

3 This person, who has lately betrayed the most rapid symp- 
toms of confirmed authorship, is writerof a poem denomin:::Ld 
the "Art of Pleasing," as " lucus a non lucendo," containing 
little pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as monthly 
stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the Satirist. If ih-s 
unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the 
mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent doaree in Ins 
university, it might eventually prove more serviceable than 
his present salary. 

4 " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transportf d a 
considerable body of Vandals." — Gibbon's Decline and FhII. 
page 83, vol. 2. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this 
assertion — the breed is still in high perfection. 

5 This gentleman's name requires no praise : the man wno 
in translation displays unquestionable genius, may well be 
expected to excel in original composition, of which it is to De 
hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen. 

6 The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem ly Rick 
ards. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



37 



Vio just applause her honour'd name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh, would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appearM in her meridian hour, 
'I'is thine at once, fair Albion, to have been, 
Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty queen: 
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main : 
Like these thy strength may sink in ruin hurl'd. 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate. 
With warning ever scoff 'd at, 'till too late , 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine. 
And urge thy bards to gain a name Uke thine. 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest. 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense. 
While Caxning's colleagues hate him for his wit. 
And old dame Portland ' fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in tlie gale : 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's^ adverse height. 
And Stamboul's^ minarets must greet my sight: 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's * native clime, 
VVhere KafT* is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows 

sublime. 
But should 1 back return, no letter'd rage 
Shall drag my commonplace book on the stage : 
Let vam Valentia^ rival luckless Carr, 
f\nd equal him whose work he sought to maxj 
f.et Aberdeen and Elgin'' still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
Mis.shapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated biocks of art: 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to classic Gell ; * 
And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun mankind with poesy or prose. 

Thus far I 've held my undisturb'd career. 
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 
This thing of rhjTne I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 



1 A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P. was 
fikened to an old woman? replied, "he supposed it was be- 
cause he was past bearing." 

2 Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. 

.< Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constantinople. 

4 Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. 

5 Mount Caucasus. 

ti Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forthcom- 
ing, with due decorations, graphical, topographical, and typo- 
graphical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that 
Dtil'ois' satire prevented his purchase of the " Stranger in 
Ireland." — Oh fie, my Lord ! has your lordship no more feel- 
ing for a fellow-tourist 7 but " two of a trade," they say, etc. 

7 Lord Elgin wouM fain persuade us '.hat all the figures, 
.vith and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of 
Phidias! " Credat Judaeus." 

8 Mr. GelVs Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail 
to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical 
caste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys to the mind 
of the reader, as for the abdity and research the respective 
works display 



My voice was heard again, though not so loud ; 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd, 
And now at once I tear the veil away : 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of MELBouiiNE-house, 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse^ 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too are " penetrable stuff:" 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go^ 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would faO 
From hps that now may seem imbued with gall, 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I 've learn'd to think and sternly speak the truth ; 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree. 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss. 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss ; 
Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce. 
Thus much I 've dared to do ; how far my lay 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say ; 
This let the world, which knows not how to spare. 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 



POSTSCRIPT.^ 



I have been informed, since the present edition wem 
to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, 
the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- 
ment critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting muse, 
whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodlj 
ribaldry : 

" Tantaene animis coelestibus iree V 
I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew 
Aguecheek saith, " an I had known he was so cun- 
ning offence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought 
him." What a pity it is that I shall be bej^ond the Bos- 
phorus before the ne.xt number has passed the Tweed. 
But yet I hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, oi 
personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, 
Jeffrey : but what else was to be done with him and 
his dirty pack, who feed " by lying and slandering," and 
slake their thirst by "evil-speaking?" I have adduced 
facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have 
stated my free opinion ; nor has he thence sustained 
any injury : what scavenger was ever soiled by being 
pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England 
because I have censured there " persons of honour and 
wit about town;" but I am coming back again, and 
their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those 
who know me can testify that my motives for leaving 
England are very different from fears, literary or pe»- 
sonal ; those who do not, may one day be convinced. 

1 Published to the Second Edition. 



f?8 



byron'kS works. 



Since the oublication of this thing, my name has not 
been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready 
tc- answer for my transgressions, and in daily expecta- 
tion of sundry cartels ; but, alas ! " The age of chiv- 
alry IS over;" or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no 
spirit now-a-daj's. 

There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi, 
Esq.), a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe aden- 
izen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced 
in these pages to much better company than he has been 
accustomed to meet : he is, notwithstanding, a very sad 
dog, and, for no reason that I can discover, except a 
personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge 
to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his 
Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been 
abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent 
above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some 
months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him 
any provocation ; indeed I am guiltless of having heard 
his name, till it was coupled with the Satirist. He has, 
therefore, no reason to complain, and I dare say that, 
like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather p/eased than other- 
wise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the 
honour to notice me and m.ine, that is, my bear and my 
book, except the editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, 
is a gentleman. God wot ! I wish he could impart a lit- 
tle of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear 
that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels 
for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle : I hope not ; he was one 
of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had 



with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and 
whatever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." 
I have nothing further to add, save a general note o/ 
thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and, 
in the words of Scott, I wish 

" To a. and each a fair good night, 
And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 



The following Lineswere writtenby Mr. Fttzgeralp, 
in a Copy of English Bards and Scotch Re 

VIEWERS : — 

I find Lord Byron scorns my muse — 

Our fates are ill agreed ! 
His verse is safe — I can't abuse 
Those lines I never read. 

W. F. F. 



His Lordship accidentally met with the Copy^ and sub- 
joined the following pungent Reply : — 
What 's writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read ; — 
What's wrote by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed. 
The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz . — 
Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits, 
Or rather would be, if, for time to come, 
They luckily were deaf or thou wert dumb — 
But, to their pens, while scribblers add their tongues,'^ 
The waiter only can escape their lungs. 



1 Mr. Fitzgerald is in the habit of reciting his own poetry 
-See note to English Bards, p. 26. 



A ROMAUNT. 



L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page, quand on n'a vu que Eons pays 
J'en ai feuillete un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvees egalement mauvaises. Cat examen ne m'a 
point ete infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi 
lesquels j'ai v6cu, m'ont r6concilie avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tir6 d'autre benefice de raes voy 
ages que celui-lk, je n'cn regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE. 



The following poem was written, for the most part, 
amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- 
vations in those countries. Thus much it may be ne- 
cessary to ^tate for the con-ectness of the descriptions. 
The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, 
Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There 
for the present the poem stops: Us reception will 
determine whether the author may venture to conduct 
his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and 
Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental. 

A tictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece ; which, however, 
makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- 
gested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high 
<alue, that m this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," 
I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real 
IKirsonage ; this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — 



Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose ] 
have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and thr je 
merely local, there might be grounds for such a noti* i ; 
but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever . 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appcla- 
ticn "Childe," as "Childe Waters," "Childe Chil- 
ders," etc., is used as more consonant with the old struc- 
ture of versification which I have adopted. The " Good 
Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was sug- 
gested by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Bor- 
der Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published 
on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight 
coincidence in the first part, which treats of the Penin- 
sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception 
of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem 
was wTitten in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most 
successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie 
makes the following observation: "Not long ago I 
began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, ii. 
which I propose to give full scope to Jiy ii.c)ina*ion. 



PREFACE TO CHILDL' HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



aud be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or senti- 
mental, tender or satirical, as the humour stnxes me ; 
for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted, 
admits equally of all these kinds of composition.'" — 
Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by 
the example of some in the highest order of Italian 
poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar 
variations in the following composition ; satisfied tliat, 
if they are unsuccessful, their failui-e must be in the 
execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the 
practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 

ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I have now waited till almost all our periodical jour- 
nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. 
To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I 
have nothing to object ; it would ill become me to 
quarrel with their very shght degree of censure, when 
perhaps, if they had been less kind, they had been more 
candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best 
thanks for their hberality, on one point alone shall I 
venture an observation. Amongst the many objections 
justly urged to the very indifferent character of the 
"vagrant Childe" (whom, notwithstanding many hints 
to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious per- 
sonage), it has been stated that, besides the anachron- 
ism, he is very unhiightly, as the times of the knights 
were times of love, honour, and so forth. Now, it so 
happens, that the good old times, when "I'amour du 
bon vieux temps, I'amour antique" flourished, were the 
most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who 
have any doubts on this subject, may consult St. Palaye, 
■passim, and more particularly vol. ii. page 69. The 
vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other 
vows whatsoever, and the songs of the Troubadours 
were not more decent, and certainly were much less 
refined, than those of Ovid. — The "Cours d'amour 
parlements d'amour ou de courtoisie et de gentilesse," 
had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. — 
See Roland ^m the same subject with St. Palaye. — 
Whatever other objection may be urged to that most 
unamio.ble personage, Childe Harold, he was so far 
perfectly knightly in his attributes — " No waiter, but a 
knight templar."^ — By the bye, I fear that Sir Tristram 
and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, 
although very poetical personages and true knights 
" sans peur," though not " sans reproche." — If the 
story of the institution of the " Garter" be not a fable, 
the knights of that order have for several centuries borne 
the badge of a Countess of Sahsbury, of indifferent 
memory. So much for cliivalry. Burke need not have 
regretted that its days are over, though Marie Antoinette 
was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours 
lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of an- 
cient and modern times), few exceptions will be found 
To this statement, and I fear a little investigation will 
leach us not to regret those monstrous mummeries of 
the middle ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold" to live his day, such 
is he is , it had been more agreeable, and certainly 
nore easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had 
been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do 

1 Beattie's Letters. 2 The Rovers.— ./3nti-jaco6m. 



more and express less, bm he never was intendeit as an 
example, further than to snv)w that early perversion of 
mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and 
disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties 
of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, 
the most powerful of all excitements), are lost on a soul 
so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded 
with the poem, this character would have deepened as 
he drew to the close ; for the outline which I once 
meant to fill up for him, was, with some exceptions, 
the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical 
Zeluco. 



TO lANTHE. 

Not in those climes where I have late been straying 
Tho' beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd , 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd. 
Hath aught like thee, in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language cculd they 
speak ? 

Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart. 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so Ibndly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years. 
Before whose heavenly Ires all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely \'iew thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline, 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
But mix'd with pangs to love's even loveliest hours de- 
creed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's. 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy. 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
To one so young, my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless hly blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number'd, should this homage pasi 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd tliee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my .nemory may desire ; 
Though more than hope can claim, could friendelji^ 
.ess require ? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 



A ROIVIAUNT. 



CANTO I. 



I. 



Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill ; 
Vet there I 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,' 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, 
I o grace bO plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

II. 

Whiiome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth. 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a sha^meless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie. 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

III. 

Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame. 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay. 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme. 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Cnilde Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 
Nor deem'd before his litde day was done. 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by. 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
*Vbich seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. 



For he through sin's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one. 
And that .oved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
VVho soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss. 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
^'ir cahu domestic uc'toft ImuJ er-n? dcign'd to taste. 



And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start. 
But pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolv'd to go. 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for woe, 

And e'en for change of scene would seek the sha iea 
below. 

VII. 
The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile : 
So old, it seemed only not to fall. 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile , 
And monks mjght deem their time was come agen, 

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 

VIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood. 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul. 
That feels rehef by bidding sorrow flow. 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not contrcL 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near. 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea, none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care. 
And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wms his way where seraphs might despair. 

X. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he ba.de adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
Ye who have known vv'hat 't is to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to lica!. 

XL 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight. 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snovv-y bands, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
And all that mote to luxury invite. 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brme. 
And traverse Paynim shoroi, %7i pass curth's cer 
UnN, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 41 


XII. 


5. 


The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 


* My father bless'd me fervently. 


As glad to waft him from his native home ; 


Yet did not much complain ; 


And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 


But sorely will my mother sigh 


And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 


Till I come back again.' — 


And then, it may be, of liis wish to roam 


" Enough, enough, my little lad ! 


Repented he, but in his bosom slept 


Such tears become thine eye ; 


The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 


If I thy guileless bosom had, 


One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 


Mine own would not be dry. 


And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 




XIII. 


6. 


But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 


« Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. 


He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 


Why dost thou look so pale ? 


And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 


Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 


When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 


Or shiver at the gale?"— 


And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. 


* Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 


And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 


Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 


While flew the vessel on her snowy wing. 


But thinking on an absent wife 


And fleeting shores receded from his sight. 


Will blanch a faithful cheek. 


Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night." 




1. 

" Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 
Fades o'er the waters blue ; 


7. 

' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hali. 


Along the bordering lake. 


The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 


And when they on their father call. 


And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 


What answer shall she make?'— 


Yon sun that sets upon the sea 


" Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 


We foUow in his flight ; 


Thy grief let none gainsay ; 


Farewell awhile to him and thee. 


But I, who am of hghter mood. 


My native land— Good Night ! 


Will laugh to flee away. 


2. 
A few short hours and he will rise 


8. 

" For who w-ould trust the seeming sighs 


To give the morrow birth ; 


Of wife or paramour ? 


And I shall hail the main and skies, - 


Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 


But not my mother earth. 


We late saw streaming o'er. 


Deserted is my own good hall, 


For pleasures past I do not grieve, 


Its hearth is desolate ; 


Nor perils gathering near ; 


Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 


My greatest grief is that I leave 


My dog howls at the gate. 


No thing that claims a tear. 


3. 

" Come hither, hither, my little page ! 


9. 

" And now I'm in the world alone. 


Why dost thou weep and wail ? 


Upon the wide, wide sea : 


Or dost thou dread the billows' rage. 


But why should I for others groan. 


Or tremble at the gale? 


When none will sigh for me ? 


But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 


Perchance my dog will whine in vain 


Our ship is swift and strong : 


Till fed by stranger hands ; 


Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 


But long ere I come back again, 


More merrily along." 


He 'd tear me where he stands. 

• 


4, 

' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 


10. 

" With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 


I fear not wave nor wind ; 


Athwart the foaming brine ; 


Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 


Nor care what land thou bear'st me to. 


Am sorrowful in mind ; 


So not again to mine. 


For I have from my father gone. 


Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue wave* ' 


A mother whom I love. 


And when you fail my sight, 


And have no friend, save these alone, 


Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 


But thee— and one above. 
11 


My native land— Good Night !'» 



ie 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
A.nd winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but Avnth the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 

XV. 

Oh ! Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almightj'^ lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge, 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first imfold ? 
Her image floating on that noble tide. 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied. 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
W^ho Uck j-et loathe the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wTath of Gaul's unsparing lord, 

XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seerns to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shut. 
Though shent with Egj-pt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet bom 'midst noblest scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on wliich the eye dilates, 
'J'iirough views more dazzling unto mor^-al ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates. 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates ? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by topplmg convent cown'd. 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep. 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrowu'd^ 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must vee^. 
The tende- azure of the unruffled deep. 
The orange tmts ihat gild the greenest bough. 
The torrents that from cliff" to valley leap. 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 



XX. 

Then slowly climb the manj'-winding way. 
And frequent turn to Unger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
And rest ye at " our Lady's house of woe ;" * 
Where frugal monks their little reUcs show. 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punished been, and lo! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. 



And here and there, as up the crags you sprmg, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wTath: 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking \'ictim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Tliroughout this purple land, where law secures not life ' 

XXII. 

On sloping moimds, or in the vale beneath. 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 
Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the prince's palace fair : 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy paradise, as not aware 
When wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever w ont to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure pkn^ 
Beneath yon mountain's ever-beauteous brow : 
But now, as if a thing unblest by man. 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping \vide • 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide ! 

XXIV. 

Behold the hall Avhere chiofs were late convened ! * 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, !o ! a fiend, 
A Uttle fiend that scoffs incessantly. 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazon'd glare names kno'iATi to chivalr}', 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll. 
Whereat the urchin points and laughs with all his soul 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume. 
And policy regain'd what arms had lost : 
For chiefs hke ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd host- 
Sincti baffl?d trlvunph drorps on Lusitania's <vast ' 



4 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



43 



XXVI. 

And ever since that martial sjiiod met, 
Britannia sickens, C intra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention fret, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 
year? 

XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth, mispent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew dim. 

xxvm. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
)r he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,* 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen ; 
And church and court did mingle their array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordlings and freeres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
And bow the knee to pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 

XXX. 
O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freebom race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fiUs, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
i.nd life, that bloated ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share subjection's woes. 



XXXII. 

Where Lusitama and her sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet. 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that partHispania's land from Gaul: 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides. 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemcn flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'TwLxt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.* 

XXXIV. 

But, ere the mingling boimds have far been pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd , 

XXXV. 

Oh ! lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore ? 
Where are those bloody barmers which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale. 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale. 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' vvaii 

XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine ej^e from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great ? 
Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue. 
When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does then 
wrong ? 

xxxvn. 

Awake ! ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance I 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries. 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lancc. 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies . 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
And speak? \n thunder through yon engine's roar . 
In every peal sne caus — "Awake! arise!" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Av alusia's shcre r 



44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVIII. 

HarK I — heard 3-ou not those hoofs of dreadful note? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved j'our brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Eacli volley tells that thousands cease to breatlie ; 
Death riiles upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Ilcd Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 

XL. 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
Wliat gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair. 
And gnash their fangs, loud 3'elling for th-^, prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize awaj'. 
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout tlie pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victoiy ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally- 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
.\nd fertUizs the field that each pretends to gain. 

XLH. 

There shall they rot —ambition's honour'd fools ! 
Yes, honour decks tiie turf that wraps their clay! 
Vain sopliistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tjTants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
Or call with tiuth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 

XLHI. 

Oh, Aibuera ! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er tliy plain the pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes shouM boast and bleed ! 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead. 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
\nd shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song I 



XLIV. 

Enough of battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay. 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelmgs ! for their country's gooo 
And die, that hving might have proved her shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud. 
Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path pursued. 

XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free' — the spoiler's wish'd-for pre}- ! 
Soon, soon shall conquest's fier}' foot intrude. 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'gainst fate to strive 
Where desolation plants her famished brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, 
And virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to llirive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds 
Not here war's clarion, but loves rebeck sounds ; 
Here folly still his votaries enthralls ; 
And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight rounds; 
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals. 
Still to the last kind nee clings to the tott'ring walls. 

xLvn. 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could 3'e taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and man be ha]>^ yei 

XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay. 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 
No ! as he speeds, he chaunts : — " Viva el Eey !" * 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy 
And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy % 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground , 
And, scathed by fire, the green sward's dal•)^en'd vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast. 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. 




' ^• 



^MM MAHID ©3" SiiIEA(3®^A 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



45 



And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 

Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 

Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : ' 

Woe to the man that walks in public view 

Without of loyalty this token true: 

Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 

And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 

If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, 

Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
smoke. 

LI. 
At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling pahsade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 

The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,'" 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod j 
A little moment deigneth to delay : 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their way ; 
The West must own the scourger of the world. 
Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day. 
When soars Gaul's vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd ! 

LIII. 

And must they fall? the young, th« proud, the brave. 
To swell one bloated chiePs unwholesome reign ? 
No step between submission and a grave ? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
Is all that desperate valour acts in vain ? 
And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal. 

The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of 
steel? 

LIV. 
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused. 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar. 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused. 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar. 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 

Slalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake 



to tread. 



LV. 



Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil. 
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower. 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace. 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face, 
riiin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase. 
H 



LVI. 

Her lover sinks— she sheds no iH-tim.ed tear ; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base cai eer ; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host : 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost '! 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ?" 

LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazon:., 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons. 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'T is but the tender fierceness of the dove. 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 

LVIII. 

The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his toucti ' 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest. 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phcebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 
Who round the north for paler dames would seek ? 

How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, an..] 
weak ! 

LIX. 
Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud : 
Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; 
Match me those houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind. 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to know 
There your wise prophet's paradise we find. 

His black-eyed maids of heaven, angehcally kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus !'3 whom I now survey. 
Not in the phrensy of si dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ! 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine echoes with his stnng. 

Though from thy heights no more one muse will wnre 
her wing. 

LXI. 
Oft have I dream'd of thee ! whose glorious nam* 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 

In silent joy to think at last I look or tJheft ' 



46 



BYROXS WORKS. 



LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to dia int homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it not? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot. 
And thou, tlie muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
Sighs in tlie gale, keeps silence in the cave. 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Even amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear. 
And hail'd thee, not perchance ^vithout a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant. 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair mount ! when Greece was 

young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir. 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pytliian h^Tnn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peacefiil shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though glory fly her glades. 

LXY. 

Fair IS proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her weal'h, her site of ancient days;''* 
Bat Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
CaUs forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
All, vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While bojish blood is mantling who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze, 
A cherub-hj-dra round us dost thou gape. 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell bj' time — accursed time ! 
The queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white : 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worsliip, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXATI. 

From morn till night, from night till startled mom 
Peeps blushing on tiie revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, 
I)e\nces <;uaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tiead on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
!le bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though b liei. 
Of true devotion monkish incense bums, 
Apd 'ove and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 



LXYin. 

The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: 
Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar ? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn ; 
The throng'd arena shakes witli shouts for more j 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn. 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to mourn 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; tlie jubilee of man. 
London [ right well thou know'st the dav of praver 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl. 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair ; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair. 

Others along the safer turnpike fl}' ; 

Some Richmond-hUl ascend, some scud to Ware, 

And many to the steep of Hlghgate hie. 

Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! tlie reason why?'* 

'T is to the worship of the solemn horn, 

Grasp'd in the hoi}' hand of mystery, 

In whose dread nsune both men and maids are sworn, 
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance tiO 
mom. 

LXXI. 

AU have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 

Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark-blue sea! 

Soon as the matin-bell proclaimeth nine, 

Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : 

Much is the Yirgi>- teased to shrive them free 

(Well do I ween the only \irgin there) 

From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 

Then to the crowded circus forth they fare. 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share 

Lxxn. 

The hsts are oped, tlie spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; 
Long ere the first loud tmmpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, * 

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through tlieir cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad archery 

Lxxin. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gcdlant steeds, 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and fight-poised 

lance. 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the fists advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day. 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er ^.'in their toils repav 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



47 



LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all a-foot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
His arm 's a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed, 
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds Avith one lashing spring the mighty brute. 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail j red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away. 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
Streams frbm his flank the crimson torrent clear ; 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart folbws dait ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak 
his woes. 

Lxxvn. 

Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force- 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears. 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source. 
Though death-struck still his feeble frame he rears. 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. 

Lxxvni. 

FoU'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye-^'t is past— he sinks upon the sand! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline ; 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphing cries. 
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
H Lirl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 



LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart dehghts 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow. 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warra 
stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But jealousy has fled ; his bars, his bolts, 
His withered sentinel, duenna sage ! 
And aU whereat the generous soul revolts. 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could eno-a^e 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd ao-e. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
(Ere war uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone night's lover-loving queea? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a dme, and oft, had Harold loved. 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream • 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his winas : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem. 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.^* 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not Wind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely- awful eyes ; 
But passion raves herself to rest, or flies ; 
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled-with the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate ; 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song 
But who may smi'e that sinks beneath his fate ? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated lay, 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier aay. 



TO INSZ. 

1. 

Nav, smile not at my sullen brow, 

Alas ! I cannot smile ugain , 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Should' st weep, and haply weep in vaui. 



4.^ 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



2. 

And dost thou ask, what secret woe 

I bear, corroding joj- and v-outh ? 
And wiit liiou vainly seek to know 

A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 
S. 
I: is not lore, it is not hate, 

Nor Lw ambition's honours lost, 
Tl.at bids me loathe my present state, 

And flj' from all I prized the most j 
4. 
It is that weariness whidi springs 

From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
To me no pleasure beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
5. 
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
That will not look beyond the tomb, 

Buti cannot hope for rest before. 
6. 
What exile from himself can flee ? 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
SliU, still pursues, where'er I be. 

The blight of life — the demon thought. 

Tet ethers rapt in pleasure seem, 

And taste of all that I forsake ; 
Oh I may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
8. 
Throush many a chme 't b mine to go, 

^M^ih many a retrospecticn ctirst ; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whatever betides, I \e known the worst. 
9. 
What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear : 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and \-iew the hell that 's there. 

T.wxv. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
Who may forget how well thy waDs have stood ! 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be fi^e and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 
Some nadvr blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
A traitor omy fell beneath the feud: »' 
Here all were noble, save nobility : 

None hugg'd &, conqueror's chain, save fallen chivalry 
LXXXAX 
Such t>e the sons of Spain, and, strjinge her fate ! 
1 hey fight for freedom who were never free j 
A kingless people for a neneless state. 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slave of treachery ; 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but Efe, 
Pride points the path that leads to Uberty ; 
Back to ihe struggle, baffled in the strife. 

War war is still the cry, " war eveo to the luufe !" " 



Lxxxvn. 

Ye, who would mere of Spain and Spaniards know 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing s<umitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weap<»i to his need — 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each cxirst oppressor bleed. 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed . 



TAXXyilT. 

Piows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands widi female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain. 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain j 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, 
Long mark the battle-field with bideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done, 
Fresh legions pour ado^vn the P\Tenees ; 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
ZNIcre than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
Strange retributi(m! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustam'd, 
WnUe o'er the parent clime prowls morder unrestrain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight. 
Not Albuera, lavish of the dead. 
Have won for Spain her weli-asserted right. 
When shall her ohve-branch be free from Might ? 
When shall she breathe her from the bluslung toil? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night. 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil. 
And freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil • 

XCL 

And diou, my friend I '^ — since miavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain- 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty !ow. 
Pride might forbid ev'n fi-iendship to complain : 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain. 
By all forgotten, save the lonely bre-isl. 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain. 
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
What hadst thou done to s'mk so peaceably to rest ? 

xcn. 

Oh ! known the earliest, and esteem'd the most • 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And mom in secret shall renew the tear 
Of consciousness awaking to her woes. 
And fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
TiD my frail frame return to whence it ro«c, 
And moum'd and mourner lie imited m repjse. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XCIII. 

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much ? stern critic ! say not so : 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
queU'd. 



CANTO II 



I. 

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but thou, alas! 
Didst never yet one mortal song mspire — 
Goddess of wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire, ^ 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. 2 

II. 

\ncient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
. Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
Gone, glimmering thro' the dream of things that were: 
First in the race that led to glory's goal. 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour? 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower. 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 

Ih. 

Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless um ; 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must jdeld — religions take their turn : 
'T was Jove's — 't is Mahomet's — and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
Poor child of doubt and death, whose hope is built on 
reeds. 

IV. 

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven- 
Is 't not enough, unhappy thing! to know 
Thou art ? Is tliis a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go. 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe ? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
That little um saith more than thousand homilies. 
12 



V. 

Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : ^ 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around : 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
Is that a temple where a god may dwell ? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd eel) 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'c wall. 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall. 
The dome of thought, the palace of the sonl : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, 
And passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit / 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ' 
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But silence spreads the couch of ever- welcome rest. 

vin. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours hght ! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who tauglil Jir 
right ! 

IX. 

There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
When busy memory flashes on my brain ? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
If aught of young remembrance then remain, 
Be as it may futurity's behest. 
For me 't were bliss enough to Vnow thy spirit blest I 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone. 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne * 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trar-e 
The latent grandeur of ihy dwelling place. 
It may not be : nor ev'n can fancy's eye 
Restore what time hath labour'd to deface 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigii- 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the hgb* ^ eek carols b<». 



50 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XL 

But who, of all t\\c plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee, 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
Thy freeborn men should spare what once was free ; 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.* 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared:^ 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast. 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
is ne whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,' 
And never knew, till then, the weight of despots' chains. 

XIII. 

What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, 
Tore down tnose remnants with a harpy's hand, 
VThich envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 

XIV. 

Where was thine asgis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and havoc on their way ?^ 
Where Peleus' son ? whom hell in vain enthrall'd, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day, 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore. 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 

XV. 

Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
By British hands, which it had best behoved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 

Aod snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes ab- 
horr'd! 

XVI. 
Rut where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
Little reck'd he of all that men regret j 
No lovea-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Eie tne cold stranger passM to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 

A &i ir^n witnoui. a sigh the land of war and crimes. 



XVIL 

He that has sail'd upon the dark-blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow. 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flighJt, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,' 
The hoarse command, the busy humming dm. 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : 
Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides , 
Or school-boy midshipman, that, standing by. 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides. 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain. 
Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve 

From law, however stern, which tends their strength to 
nerve. 

XX. 
Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray j 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day. 
Thus loitering pensive on the wiUing seas, 

The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these! 

XXI. 

The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand j 4 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry hsteners stand. 
Or to some well-known measure featly move- 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore j 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays. 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown. 
From mountain-chff" to coast descending sombre down 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



51 



xxm. 

'T is night, when meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, vnH dream it had a friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
When youth itself survives young love and joy? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
Ah! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere ; 
The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but sometliing dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowl}^ trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that ovm not man's dominion dweU, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; 
'I'o climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not sohtude ; 't is but to hold 

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
unroll'd. 

XXVI. 
But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
None that, witli kindred consciousness endued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, foUow'd, sought, and sued ; 

This is to be alone ; this, this is sohtude ! 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly eremite. 
Such as on lovely Athos may be seen. 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Wliich looks o'er waves so biue, skies so serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

xxvin. 

Pass we the long, unvarvdng course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack. 
And each well-kno^-n caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sedlors find, 
Coop'd m their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes lise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land ! and all is well. 



xxix. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,J° 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles. 
Though tlie fair goddess long hath ceased to weep. 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stem Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 

While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen donY 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous tlirone, 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine . 
But check'd by everj'^ tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrme. 

Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eve 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote. 
Who knew his votarj' often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more. 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore. 
Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amt^-^e, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe, 
Then- hope, their doom, their punishment, their '.tw , 
All that gay beauty fi-om her bondsmen claims r 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames. 

Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anf m 
dames. 

XXXIII. 
Little knew she that seeming marble-heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or witliheld by pride. 
Was not imskilful in the spoiler's art. 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide j 
Nor fi-om the base pursuit had turn'd aside. 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doated on those eyes so blue. 

Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd i' 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes • 
But not too humbl}', or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes ; 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk confidence still best with women copes , 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon passion crc^vna 1»» 
hopes. 



L^ 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXV. 

•ris an old lesson ; time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it mostj 
VV hen all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
'riicse are thy fruits, successful passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost. 
Still to the last it rarikles, a disease, 
Not to be cured when love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread. 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive sadness, not by fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To each man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVIL 
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still. 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her Bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though 1 have mark'd her when none other hath, 

And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
wrath. 

XXXVIII. 
Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of tlie young, and beacon of the wise. 
And he, his name-sake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his d<'eds of chivalrous emprize : 
Land of Albania ! " let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 

Ylirough many a cj'press-grove within each city's ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot^^ 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the m.ount, not yet forgot. 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only heaven to which earth's children may aspire. 

XL. 

'T was on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold h.ul'd Leucadia's cape afar: 
A spot ne long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Aclium, uepanto, fatal Trafalgar;" 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
( liorn beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
\i\* loathed tne oravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial 
wjobt-. 



XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far- projecting rock of woe. 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love,'" 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid fionu 

XLH. 

Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark SuU's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak. 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break. 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
H«re roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak. 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown. 
Which all admire, but many dread to view ; 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were ^t:w; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er sh'-ank to meet. 
The scene was savage, but the pcene was new , 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet. 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed surpii^vv's 
heat. 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is ber<?, 
Though sadly scofF'd at by the circumcised. 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear , 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul superstition ! howsoe'er disguised. 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
I'hou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dro! ' 

XLV. ^ 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king'* 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring ; 
Look where the second Cajsar's trophies rose !"" 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering : 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount subliu^.e, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such love'.y dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempo boaisi 
A charm they know not ; lo'fed Parnassus faiis. 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering -juasi. 



I 



I 



I 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



53 



XLVII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,''' 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief, '^ whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.'' 

XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! ^° from thy shady brow. 
Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
Wliere'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound. 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still. 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity. 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer,^' nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer-by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind nature's sheen tt> see. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, tlie eve away. 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,^^ 
Chimoera's Alps extend from left to right : 
Beneath, a Wnng valley seems to stir ; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir 
Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! ^^ 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon. 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 



LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills ! here men are few. 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote 2* 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
Or in his rave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 



LIIL 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove ? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shiinel 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frai) bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 

When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneallb 
the stroke ! 

LIV. 
Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever spring yclad in grassy dye : 
Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high. 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance. 

Or with the moon-beams sleep in midnight's so einn 
trance. 

LV. 
The sun had sunk behind vast Tomeritj^s 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by • * 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigfi. 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 

Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the length'ning gle« 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred haram's silent tower, 
And, underneath the wi<ie o'erarching gate, 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of powei, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparations shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons ivax , 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store 
Circled the wide-extending court below: 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor ; 
And oft-times through the Area's echoing Jv^oi" 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his sttcd j.wajr -^ 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, atiJ the lAo'.i, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 

While the deep war-drum's sound anni. t,iiced the cl^sa 
of day. 

LVIII. 
The wild Albanian kirtled to his kiwj, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamwiied gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see j 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on. 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple GrceR . 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak. 

Master of all around, too potent to be meek. 



54 



BYRONS WORKS. 



LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motle\' scene that varies round ; 
There some grave ■Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that plaj', are found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound. 
The Muezza's call doth shake the minaret, 
"Tliere is no god but God! — to prayer — lo! God is great! " 

LX. 

Just at tills season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the nile again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board \vithin ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain. 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 

Here jvoman's voice is never heard : apart. 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move. 
She j-ields to one her person and her heart. 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares. 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
vVho never quits the breast no meaner passion shares. 

Lxn. 

In marble-paved pa\'ilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose. 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling. 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes ; 
Vet in his lineaments ye cannot trace. 
While gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
1'he deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. 

Lxin. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd. 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
[n years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
In Woodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
TiR quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat 
Ul felted grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
Ana \iieasure, leagued with pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 



Lxy. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet thev lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sur 
When gratitude or valour bids them bleed, 
UnshaKcn rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
And after view'd them, when, within their power. 
Himself awhile the ^'ictim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press? 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof. 
When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less. 
And fellcw-countrjTnen have stood aloof — ^^ 
In aught that tries the heart how few wittistand the proof. 

LXVII. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggj' shore, 
\^'^len all around was desolate and dark ; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore. 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once agtin renew their ancient butcher-work. 

Lxvm. 

Vain fear ! the Suhotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than poUsh'd slaves though not so bland. 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their gannents damp. 
And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp. 
And spread their fare ; though honie'y, all they had , 
Such conduct bears philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad. 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least tlie bad. 

LXIX. , 

It came to pass, tliat when he did address 

Himself to quit at length this mountain-land. 

Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress. 

And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 

And therefore did he take a trusty oand 

To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 

In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, 

Till he did greet white Achelous' tide. 

And from his furtlier bank ^Etolia's worlds espied. 

LXX. 

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove. 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm hay's breast, 
As ^^-inds come lightly whisperinc from the west. 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene. — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest, 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene. 
For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



bt^ 



LXXI. 

Un the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, ^^ 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each palikar^^ his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
Veiling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan. 

LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not iiidecent, glee. 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that ^o their girdles stream'd, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sung, half 
scream'd : '° 

1. 

^' Tambourgi ! Tambourgi! ' thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
C himariot, Ulyrian, and dark Suliote ! 

2. 
Oh ! who is more brave than a dark SuHote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock. 
And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 

3. 

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 

4. 

Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves. 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

6. 
I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long-flowing hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

7. 
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe ; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, 
,\nd sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 



1 Drummer. 



Remember the moment when Previsa fell,^^ 
The shrieks oi'the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared. 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 



I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped. 
Let the yellow-hair'd ' Giaours ^ view his horse-tail ' 

with dread ; 
When his Delhis'* come dashing in blood o'er the ban?y^ 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

11. 

Selictar ! * unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! ^' 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long-accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb . 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Ph3de's brow''' 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which viovt 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hano. 
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmann'd- 



In 



LXXV. 

save form alone, how changed ! and who 



That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost liberty ? 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from slavery's mournfu] ^3 e* 



1 Yellow is the epithet given to the Russiann 

2 Infidels. 

3 Horse-tails are the insignia of a pacha. 

4 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hopo. 

5 Sword-bearer. 



,015 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not 
Who wjuld be free themselves must strike the blow ? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 

LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest;'* 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, '^ 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
Kul slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 

Lxxvin. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin. 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share. 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
A.nd join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment that thine, 
Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain ; 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng. 
All felt the common joy they now must feign. 
Nor oft I 've seen such sight nor heard such song, 
^s woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echoed back the measured oar. 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
A.nd when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Fill sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along tbe foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home. 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand. 
Or gently prebt, retum'd the pressure still ; 
Oh love ! young love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
1 licso hours, and only tliese, redeem life's years of ill ! 



LXXXII. 

But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Ev'n through the closest searmcnt half betray'd'' 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness ol the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ? 

Lxxxni. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! 

LXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state , 
An hour may lay it in the dust ; and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate. 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish time and fate ? 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe. 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou ! 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow'' 
Proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now : 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow. 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth ; 

LXXXVI. # 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ;'' 
Save where Tntonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave. 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
While strangers only not regardless pass. 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas " 

LXXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields. 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled. 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freebom wanderer of thy mountain-air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fair. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thhie is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast reahii of wonder spreads around, 
And all the muse's tales seem trul}^ told. 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: 
Each hill and dale, each deep'ning glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
A.ge shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves ahke its bounds and boundless fame 
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the mom to distant glor}' dear. 
When Marathon became a magic word ;^^ 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 

XC. 

The flpng Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 

The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 

Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plam below ; 

Death in the front, destruction in the rear ! 

Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? 

What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 

Recording freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 

The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns 
around. 

XCI. 

Tet to the remnants of thy splendour past 

Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 

Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, 

Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 

Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 

Fill \vith thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 

Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 

Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
As Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore. 

xcn. 

The parted bosom clings to wonted home. 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
He that is lonely hither let him roam. 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no hghtsome land of social mirth ; 
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth. 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
>r gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 

xcm. 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
But spare its reUcs — let no busy hand 
Defa-je the scenes, already how defaced ! 



Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 

XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast socthed thine idlesse with inglorious lays. 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise , 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please when none are left to lo-'-e. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me , 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home. 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see- 
Would they had never been, or were to ^ome ! 
Would he had ne'er retum'd to find fresh cause to roam-' 

XCVI. 

Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past. 
And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! tliou hasi 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend • 
Ne'er j'et for one thine arrows fiew so fast. 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend. 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 

xcvn. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd. 
And follow all that peace disdains to seek? 
Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer. 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the charmel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with iU-dissembled snoei . 

xcvni. 

■What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow. 
O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destro5-'d ■ 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow. 
Since time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'Q, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd 



13 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO III. 



" Afin que cette application vous forcat de penser k autre 
ebo«, il n'y a en verite de remede que celui-la et le temps." 
Lettre da Roi de Friisse a Dalembert, Sep. 7, 1776. 



I. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair chUd ! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes thev smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we pait, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The \vinds lift up their voices : I depart, 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eve. 

n. 

Onoe more upon the waters I yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoc'er it lead ! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. 
Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

m. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of one. 
The wandering outlaw of his ovsti dark mind j 
Again I seize the theme then but begun. 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that tale I find 
The hirrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all hea%ily the journeying years 
Plod tlie last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. 

V. 

bmce mv young days of passion — joy, or pain. 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string. 
And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling ; 
So that it wean rae from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief f^ gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfiilness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 



He, who growp a^ed in Ais world of woe, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
St* tliat 110 wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Ol' silent, sharp endurance : ) e can tell 
Wliy thought seeks refuge Id /one caves, j^et rife 
With airy images, and snapes which dwell 
fetill unimpair'd, though old. in the soul's haunted cell. 



VI. 

'T is to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endo-/ 
With form oiu- fancy, gaining as we gi\f 
The Ufe we image, ev'n as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing ; but not so ar". t'.ou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traversr earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth^ 
And feeling still w-ith thee in my crush'd feelings' dearii* 

vn. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till mv brain became, 
In its own eddy boiUng and overwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of hfe were poison'd. 'T is too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time cannot abate, 
And fe-^d on bitter fhuts without accusing fate. 

xm. 

Something too much of this : — but now 'tis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long-absent Hap^old re-appears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel. 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not but ne'er hcali 
Yet time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaff"'d too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fiU'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground. 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavj' though it clank'd not ; worn witji pa*^, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took, through man> i. sccLe. 

X. ' 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again m fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheathea with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy. no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ! such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 

XI. 

But who can ^•iew the ripen'd rose, nor seek 

To wear it ? who can curiously behold 

The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek. 

Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 

Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold 

The star wliich rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 

Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 

On with the giddy circle, chasing time. 

Ye* witli a nobler aim than in his youth's Ginn pnme 



Jolm 




CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



63 



XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with man ; with whom he held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompeU'd 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
\ life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 

XIII. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; 
Where roU'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For nature's pages, glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 

Till he had peopled them with beings bright 

As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-bom jars. 

And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 

Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 

He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 

Its spark immortal, envying it the light 

To which it mounts, as if to break the link 

rhat keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 

XV. 
But in man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing. 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 

Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XVI. 

!Seif-exiled Harold wanders forth again. 

With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 

The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 

That all was over on this side the tomb. 

Had made despair a smilingness assume. 

Which, though 't were wild, — as on the plunder'd 

wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,— 
Oid yet inspire a cheer,- which he forbore to check. 

xvn. 

!5top ! — for thy tread is on an empire's dust ! 
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
riiou first and last of fields ! king-making victory? 



XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls. 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In "pride of place" ' here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain. 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's Ufe and labours all were vain ; 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is earth more free ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving thraldom again be 
The patch' d-up idol of enlightened days ? 
Shall we, who struck the hon down, shall we 
Pay the wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before j e praisel 

XX. 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all men borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes the sword 
Such as Harmodius ^ drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; ^ 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knoll 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it? — No ; 't was but the wind. 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined , 
No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure moe». 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once nroi* 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadUer man before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roai 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did heai 
That sound the first amidst the festival. 
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could queC 
He rush'd into the field, and, 4»remost hgniing, icIL 



^0 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIV. 

All ! then and there wn,s hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, J nd tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise? 
XXV. 
And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swifdy forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
«Jr whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! They come! 
thev come !" 

XXVI. 
And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
And Evan's,"^ Donald's ^ fame rings in each clansman's 
ears! 

XXVII. 
And Ardennes ^ waves above them her green leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall g'-C'v 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder ccld ?nd 
low. 

XXVIII. 
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay. 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the da} 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent. 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
R ider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 
XXIX. 
Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
Vet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song j 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
n.ftv iiach'd no nobler breast than thine, younjj, gallant 
Howard 



XXX 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to U\e, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
W^ith fruits and fertile promise, and the spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
W^ith all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not brin^ 

XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to leach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake 
Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mournj 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn j 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements arc gone j 
The bars survive the captive they enthral, 
The day drags through though storms keep out the ?ii» 
And thus the heart will break, yet brekenlj' live on : 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was. 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes. 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold. 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches. 
Yet withers on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold 



XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair. 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
As nothing did we die ; but life will suit 
Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's ' shor?^ 
All ashes to the taste ; did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he 
three-score ? 



XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true. 
Thou, who didst grudge him ev'n that fleeting spar 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
MiUions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day!" 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



6) 



XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mLxt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On httle objects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
And shake again '\e world, the thunderer of the scene! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame. 
Who Avoo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Batthng with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild. 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war. 
Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul haLi brook'd the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy. 
Which; be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wonnwood to an enemy. 
When Uie whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
'T is but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot wLo choose. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock. 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone. 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved *hy 

throne. 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
t' jr sceptred cvnics earth were far too wide a den.' 
I 2 



XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core. 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their contagion ; conquerors and kings. 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet things. 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs. 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are their's ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankmd the lust to shine or rule. 

XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last. 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which eats into itself, and rusts mgloriously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow. 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread. 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head. 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal nature ! for who teems hke thee. 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, viiit,, 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells. 

XLV II. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mmd, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and prou(l, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below, 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud. 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere n'n-» 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 



1 



i;2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLVIII. 

Beneath tliose battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws'" conquerors should have. 
But history's purchased page to call them great? 
A. wider space, an ornamented grave ? 

Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLIX. 
In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride. 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would gUde ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied. 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 

Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 
L. 
But thou, exulting and abounding river! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, 
C ould man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like heaven ; and to seem such to me 

Kven now what wants thy stream? — that it should 
Lethe be. 

LI. 
A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks. 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks — 
Their -^ery graves are gone, and what are they? 
The tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd v/ith its dancing light the sunny ray. 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 

'J'liy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along. 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear ; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
*tut o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient 
trace. 

LIII. 
Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back lO kindness, though disgust 
Hath weaird it from all worldlings : thus he felt. 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
Kud m it*- tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 



LIV. 

And he had learn'd to love — I know not why. 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know j 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 

In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow, 
LV. 
And there was one soft breast, as hath been said. 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, 
TTiat love was pure, and, far above disguise. 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most hi female eyes , 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 

Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour 

1. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels '' 

Frovras o'er the wide and vianding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 

Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 

And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these. 

Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me ! 

2 
And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, 

And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 

And many a rock which steeply lours 
And noble arch in proud decay. 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these baiiks of Rhuie, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 

Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be. 

But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I have cherish'd them as dear. 

Because they yet may meet thine eye. 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 

When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 

4. 
The river nobly foams and flows. 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round ; 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here : 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To Nature and to me so dear, 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine I 






CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



63 



LVI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
Our enemy's —but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

LVII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.'^ 

LVIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein, '^ with her shatter'd wall, 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light ; 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
But peace destroy'd what war could never blight. 
And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely contemplation thus might stray ; 
And coiild the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere. 
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
'T is with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
More miglity spots may rise — more glaring shine. 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 

LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near 
them fall. 



LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimjty, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to shov/ 

How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vahi nvin 
below. 

LXIII. 
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain. 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian coast 

Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering 
ghost. 

LXIV. 
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entall'd corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 

Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-wom aspect of old days ; 
'T is the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays. 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum,'^ hath strew'd her subject lands, 

LXVI. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crav« 
The hfe she lived in ; but the judge was just. 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust. 
And held within their urn one mind, one neart, oi»e 
dust. '6 

LXVII. 
But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with ajiisidecay. 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth , 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, '* 
Imperishably pure beyond all things belo y 





G4 BYRONS WORKS. 


LXVIII. 


LXXIV. 


Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 


And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 


The mirror wliere the stars and mountains \new 


From what it hates in this degraded form. 


The stillness of their aspect, in each trace 


Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 


Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue : 


Existent happier in tlie fly and worm,— 


There is too much of man here, to look through 


When elements to elements conform. 


With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 


And dust is as il should be, shall I not 


But soon in me shall loneliness renew 


Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 


Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 


The bodiless thought 1 the spirit of each spot. 


Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 


Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot » 


LXIX. 


LXXV. 


To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 


Are not the mountains, waves, and SKies, a part 


All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 


Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 


Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 


Is not the love of these deep in my heart 


Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 


With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 


In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 


All objects, if compared with these? and stem 


Of our infection, till too late and long 


A tide of suffering, rather than forego 


We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 


Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 


In wretched interchange of wrong for wTong, 


Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below. 


'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 


Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare nol 


strong. 


glow? 


LXX. 


LXXVI. 


There, m a moment, we may plunge our years 


But this is not my theme ; and I return 


In fatal penitence, and in the blight 


To that which is immediate, and require 


Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, 


Those who find contemplation in the urn, 


And colour things to come with hues of night ; 


To look on One, whose dust w as once all fire, 


The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 


A native of the land w here I respire 


To those that walk in darkness : on the sea. 


The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 


The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 


Where he became a being, — whose desire 


But tliere are wanderers o'er eternity, 


Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish quest, 


Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 


The which to gaui and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 


LXXI. 


LXXVII. 


Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
And love earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, '^ 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 


Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 


Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than jcin the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? 


O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 


LXXII. 

I live not in myself, but I become 


LXXVIII. 


Portion of that around me ; and to me, 


His love was passion's essence — as a tree 


High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 


On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 


Of human cities torture : I can see 


Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 


Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 


Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 


A link reluctant in a fleshy chain. 


But his was not the love of living dame, 


Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 


Nor of the dead w ho rise upon our dreams, 


And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 


But of ideal beauty, w hich became 


»^f ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 


In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 




Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 


Lxxni. 




And thus 1 am absorb'd, and this is life ; 


LXXIX. 


I look upon the peopled desert past 


TTiis breathed itself to life in Julie, this 


As on a place of agony and strife. 


Invested her with all that's wild and sweet. 


Where, for some sin, to so-row was I casi, 


This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 


To act and suffer, but remount at last 


Which every morn his fever'd Up would greet, 


With a fresli pinion ; which I feel to spring. 


From hers, who out with friendship his v,ould mcs! , 


Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast 


But to that gende touch, through brain and breast 


Which i/ would cope with, on delighted wmg. 


Fldsii'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 


Ppiiming the ciay-cold bonds which roimd our being 


In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 


c.in^ 


Than vulgar minds may be with ali they seek posset* 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



6n 



LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mmd 
Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he W3J phrenzied, — wherefore, who may know? 
Since cauje might be which skill could never find ; 
But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, 
To that worst pitch of all which wears a reasoning show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pytliian's mystic cave of yore. 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling, to the yoke she bore, 
Til! by the voice of him and his compeers, 

Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown 
fears ? 

LXXXII. 
They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veU they rent. 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, 

As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they. 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with tlie day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake. 
With the v.ild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This ([uiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Tom ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
ThatI with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 
14 



LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingUng, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and, drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol mort- , 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life and infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently then- tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into nature's breeist the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themseifs* 
a star. 

LXXXIX. 
All heaven and earth are stiU — though not in slee[', 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : from the high host 
Of stars, to the kiU'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 

Of that wliich is of all Creator and defence. 

XC. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In sohtude, -where we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt. 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes know n 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm 

XCL 

Not vainly did the earl}^ Persian make 

His altar the high places and the peak 

Of earth-o'ergazing mountains,^" and thus take 

A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 

The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 

Unrear'd of human hands. Come, and ccmpan- 

Columns and idol-aw^llings, Goth or Greek, 

With nature's reahns ot worship, earth and air. 

Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy praye* 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCII. 

The sky is c' anged! — and such a change ! Ohnight,^! 
And storm, und darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the hght 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But ever} mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

xcin. 

And this is in the night : — most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shmes, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 't is black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

XCIV. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
Heights which appear as lovers w ho have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted. 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed ; 
Itself expired, but leavmg them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 

xcv. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus has cleft his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stajid : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand. 
Flashing and cast around ; of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
1 here the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountams, river, winds, lake, hghtnings ! ye ! 
With night, and clcads, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
• Jr do ve find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 

xcvn. 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak. 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word. 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; 
But as it is, 1 live and die unheard, 
Wif b a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as & sword. 



XCVIII. 

The morn is up again, the dewy morn. 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom. 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much that may give us pause, if ponder d fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep love ! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought . 
Thy trees take root in love ; the snows above 
The very glaciers have his colours caught. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 2* 
By rays which sleep there 1' vingly : the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell h ire of love, who sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks. 

Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, the* 
mocks. 

C. 
Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
Undying love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the goil 
Is a pervading life to light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkhng, and his breath hath blown. 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 

Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hov 

CI. 

All things are here of him ; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shoie 
Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
Bu' !lp!.t leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood. 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

cn. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds. 
And fairy-form'd and manj^-colour'd th'ugs. 
Who worship him with notes rrore sweet than words. 
And innocently open their glad wings. 
Fearless and full of Ufe : the gush of springs. 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by love, unto one mighty end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more. 
For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, 
For 't is his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
Witli the immortal lights, in its eternity ' 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



01 



CIV. 

T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
Where early love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with lovelmess : 't is lone. 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
throne. 

CV. 
Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes^^ 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder and the 

flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 

On man and man's research could deign do more than 
smile. 

CVI. 
The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher combined ; 
He multiplied liimself among mankind. 
The Proteus of their talents : but his outi 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 

Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought. 
And hiving -v^-isdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought. 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe. 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer : 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell. 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell. 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently w^eU. 

cvin. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
The hour must come when such things shall be made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
Wliich, thus much we are sure, must Ue decay'd ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

CIX. 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the power of air. 



ex. 

Italia ! too, — Italia. ! looking on thee. 
Full flashes on the soul the fight of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; stiL, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill. 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hiK. 

CXI. 

Thus far I have proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, — and to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal. 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,- - 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought ; 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 

CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along. 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 

cxm. 

I have not loved the w orld, nor the world me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, ana stiD 
could, 
Had I not filed ^'^ my mind, which thus itself subdued. 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the w-orld, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will not do 

ceive. 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; ^* 
That two, or one, are almost wiiat they seem, — 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dreanx 

cxv. 

My daughter ! with thy name this song began— 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall enil 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend . 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
My voice shall with thy f lature visions blend. 
And reach info thy heart, — when mine is co.o, 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mru>d. 



^.8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXVI. 

To aid thy mind's developement, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
A.nd print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not w hat is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 

Yet, tliough dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, 't were the 

same — 
1 know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still tliou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though born in bitterness. 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were tlie elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire^ 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me! 



CANTO IV. 



Visto ho Toscana, Lombanlia, Romagna, 
tduel monte che divide, e quel che serra 
Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, cho la bagna. 

ARIOSTO, Satira i 



JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. 

etc. etc. etc. 

My dear Hobhouse, 

After an interval of eight years between the com- 
position of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 
the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to 
♦he public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not ex- 
traordinary that I should recur to one still older and 
better, — to one who has beheld the birth and deadi of 
the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the 
social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than — 
though noi ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe 
Harold, for any public favour reflected through the 
poeni on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, 
and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over 
my sickness, and kind in my sorrow, glad in my pros- 
perity, and firm in my adversit}', true in counsel, and 
trusiy 111 peril — to a friend often tried, and never found 
wanimg; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in dedi- 
caimg to vou Mr. its complete, or at least concluded 



state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
thoughtful, and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
wish to do honour to m3self b}' the record of man} 
years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, Df 
steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours 
to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of sin 
cerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friend- 
ship, and it is not for you, nor even for others, but ti? 
reUeve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been 
so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as 
to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to 
commemorate your good qualities, or rather the ad- 
vantages which I have derived from their exertion. 
Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the an- 
niversary of the most unfortunate day of my past ex- 
istence, but which cannot poison my future, while I 
retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own 
faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- 
lection for both, masmuch as it will remind us of this 
my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, 
such as few men have experienced, and no one could 
experience without thinking better of his species and 
of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at vari- 
ous periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and 
fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy : and 
what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years 
ago, Venice and Rome have been more recentl)^ The 
poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied 
me from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardon- 
able vanity which induces me to reflect with compla- 
cency on a composition which in some degree connects 
me with the spot where it was produced, and the ob- 
jects it would fain describe ; and however unworthy il 
may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, 
however short it may fall of our distant conceptions 
and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respec 
for what is venerable, and a feeling for what is glorious, 
it has been to me a source of pleasure in the produc- 
tion, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I 
hardly suspected that events could have left me for 
imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated 
from the author speaking in his own person. The fact 
is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which 
every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the 
Chinese in Goldsmith's *' Citizen of the World," whom 
nobody would beUeve to be a Chinese, it was in vam 
that I asserted, and imagined, that I had drav\Ti a dis- 
tinction between the author and the pilgrim ; and tiie 
very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disap- 
pointment at finding it unavaihng, so far crushed my 
efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon 
it altogether — and have done so. The opinions which 
have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now 
a matter of indifference ; the work is to depend on it- 
self, and not on the writer ; and the author, who has no 
resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, tran- 
sient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary 
efforts, deserves the fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my inten- 
tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
upon the present state of Italian literature, lod pprhaps 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



69 



of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 
I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of ex- 
ternal objects and the consequent reflections ; and for 
the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, 
I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily 
limited to the elucidation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to 
dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impartiality 
which would induce us, — though perhaps no inatten- 
tive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs 
of the people amongst whom we have recently abode, 
— to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more 
larrowly examine our information. The state of lite- 
rary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to 
have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impar- 
tially between them is next to impossible. It may be 
enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from 
'iheir own beautiful language — " Mi pare che in un 
T)aese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed 
insieme la piii dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si possono 
tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non 
fta perduto I'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere 
'a prima." Italy has great names still — Canova, Monti, 
UgoFoscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, 
41brizzi, Nezzofanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and 
Vacca, will secure to the present generation an hon- 
ourable place in most of the departments of art, sci- 
ence, and belles-lettres ; and in some the very highest ; 
— Europe — the world — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that "La 
pianta uomo nasce piu robusta in Itaha che in qualun- 
que altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si 
commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing 
to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doc- 
trine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect 
more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must 
be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not 
struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, 
or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities. 
the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their 
conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of 
beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated 
revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair 
of ages, their still unquenched '* longing after immor- 
tality," — the immortality of independence. And when 
we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard 
the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, "Roma! 
Roma ! Roma ! Roma non e piu come era prima," it 
was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with 
the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled 
from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. 
Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy^ of France, 
and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself 
have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of 
our history. For me, 

"Non movero mai corda 

Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
ascertained that England has acquired something more 
than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Cor- 
pus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what 
thev have done abroad, and especially in the South, 
K 



verily they will have their reward," and at no very 
distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agree- 
able return to that country vihose real welfare can be 
dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you thii 
poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how 
truly I am ever 

Your obliged 

And affectionate friend, 

BYRON. 
Venice, January 2, 1818. 



I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; ' 

A palace and a prison on each hand : 

I saw from out the wave her structures rise 

As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 

A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 

Around me, and a dying glory smiles 

O'er the far times, when many a subject land 

Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 

Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles ! 

II. 
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, • 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkhng showers ; 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 

Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased, 

III. 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,' 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die : 
Nor yet forget how Venice once \Md.s dear. 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despona 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'ei, 
For us re-peopled were the solitary shore. 

V. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which late 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flow ers have dwiu 
And with a fresher growth replenis)>ing the void. 



70 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from hope, the last from vacancy; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that \\ hich gro\\s beneath mine eye : 
Yet there arc thmgs whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky. 
And the strange constellations which the muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go — 
They came like truth, and disappear'd Uke dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would, siill teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound. 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 

I 've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind j 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea? 

IX. 

Perhaps 1 .oved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull oblivion bar 

X. 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." * 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted ; — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
a seed. 

XL 
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord : 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd. 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her -widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood * 
Stand, out in mockery of his wither'd power. 
Over the proud Place where an emperor sued, 
And rnonarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequali'd dower. 



XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reign 
An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt . 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have fei 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
Oh for one hour of bhnd old Dandolo ! ' 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering lo* 

XIII. 

Before St. IMark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? ^ 
Are they not bridled ? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion," ^ which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyrannj can Wight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver' d — the long f>le 
Of her dead doges are declined to dust , 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, '" 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 

XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the j'oke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, '' 
Her voice tneir only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt—he rends his captive's chains. 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his str^insj 

XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot. 
Thy choral memory of the bard divine. 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the ocean quern should not 
Abandon ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wafl. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



71 



XVIII. 

I loved her from my bo5-hood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising Uke water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
And Otway, RadcUffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,'^ 
Had stamp'd her image m me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe. 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough ! 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought : 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught : 
There are some feelings time cannot benumb. 
Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 

XX. 

But from their nature will the tannen grow "' 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks. 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howUng tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came. 
And grew a giant tree j — the mind may grow the same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its fom abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The camel labours with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd. 
Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event 
Ends : — some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd. 
Return to whence they came — with like intent. 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time. 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 

• XXIII. 

But ever and anon of grief subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things wliich bring 
Back on the heart the weight Avhich it would fling 
Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music, — summer's eve — or spring, 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound. 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are quickly 
bound ; 



XXIV. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 

Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind. 

But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 

The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 

Which out of things famiUar, undesign'd. 

When least we deem of such, calls up to ViCw 

The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 

The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — aiimv 

The moum'd, the loved, the lost — too many! yet h'j\* 
few! 

XX\. 
But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst deca}', and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
W^hich was the mightiest in its old command. 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. 

The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all art yields, and nature can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced, 

xxvn. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the west. 
Where the day joins the past eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ; 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but stiU ^ 
Von surmy sea heaves brightly, and remains 
RoU'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
As day and night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 

Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd withit i 
glows, 

XXIX. 
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes do\\Ti upon the waters ; all its. hues. 
From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting dav 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away, 

The last still loveliest, till — 't is gone — and aU is g'a^ 



XXX. 

The.e is a tomb in Arqua; — rear'd in air, 
PillarM in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair 
INIanj' flimiliar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name '* 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; '^ 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
i'^r those who their mortality have felt. 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
'J fa bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 

xxxm. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers. 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by. 
Clear as its current, ghde the sauntering hours 
With a cahn languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
T is solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no tlatterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive. 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, " who impair 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
in melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay. 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

t errara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Esle, which for many an age made good 
[ts strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrarK, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
rhe u-'eyth which Dante's brow alone had worn before. 



XXXVI. 

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 

XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn. 

XXXVIII. 

Thou I form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
He ! with a glory round his furrow'd brow. 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow '^ 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking Ivre, 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 

In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 

Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to miss. 

Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! 

Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 

The tide of generations shall roll on. 

And not the whole combined and countless tlirong 

Compose a mind like thine ! though all in one 

Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not fonn a 
sun. 

XL. 
Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 
Thy countrymen, before thee bom to shine, 
The bards of hell and chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's Comedy Divine ; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magic line. 
And, Uke the Ariosto of the north. 

Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly wort) . 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust '^ 
The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
For the true laurel- wreath which glory weaves '' 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly superstition grieves. 
Know that the Ughtning sanctifies below 21 
Whatever it strikes ; — ^yon head is doubly sacred now- 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



73 



XLII. 

Italia! ohitaiia! thou who hast 22 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of fxame. 
Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; 

XLffl. 

Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Do^-n the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff" blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
V'lctoror vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,^' 
I'he Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind. 
Came INIegara before me, and behind 
JEgma. lay, Piraeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all tliese unite 
[ ;i ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site. 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 

Thrtv page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline. 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm. 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titantic ibrm,^* 
♦Vrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII, 

Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side 
Mother of arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
ShiU yet redeem thee, and, all back\vard driven, 
Moi ihe barbanan tide, and sue to be forgiven, 
K 2 15 



XLVIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sv, eeps 
Was modern luxury of commerce born, 
And buried learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills ^* 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn; withm the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when nature's self would tan; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould . 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal art. 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
Where pedantry guUs folly — we have eyes: 

Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan shep 
herd's prize. 

LI. 
Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or. 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy owti vanquish'd lord of war? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn. 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! ^^ while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 

Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an 
urn? 

LH. 
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeUng to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create. 
From what has been or might be, things whicli or ->« 

Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

Lin. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The ai-tist and his ape, to teach and toll 
How well his ccnnoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous sweri 
Let these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the btrcHTu 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
.That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 2' 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones,^^ and his, 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose.^' 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 

Might furnish forth creation : — Italy I 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 

rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spii'its which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate wit.h divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as hfe ? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? 

Lvn. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,'° 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 3' 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Tiieir children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown ^^ 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore. 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 

Ihs life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine 
own. 

LVIII. 
Boccaccio to his pa i;nt earth bequeath'd ^^ 
His dust, — and lies it not her great among. 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song. 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 

Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom I 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
Ve,. for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
*Vhile Florence vamly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. 



LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones 7 ^* 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes? .the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of art's most princely shrine, 
Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more maiTels yet — but not for mine ; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with nature rather in the fields. 
Than art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, y(;t it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore. 
Where courage falls in her despairing files. 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore. 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day. 
And such the phrenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray 
An earthquake reel'd unheededl}"^ away ! •** 
None feh stern nature rocking at his feet. 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet ; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet I 

LXIV 

The earth to them was as a rolling bark 

Which bore them to eternity ; they saw 

The ocean round, but had no time to mark 

The motions of their vessels ; nature's law 

In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 

Wliich reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 

Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 

From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds 

Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath nc 
words. 

LXV 
Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'«;n- — 
A httle rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinett/; tells ye where the dead 

Made the eal•th.^vet, t»d turn'd the unwilling waters red. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXVI. 

But thou, Clitumnus ! m thy sweetest wave'^ 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
? mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters ! 

LXVII. 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill. 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd w^ater-lily sails 

Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
tales. 

LXVIII. 
Pass not unblest the genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
J. weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 't is to him ye must 

Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an rjiceasing shower, which round, 
With its unen7|/tied cloud of gentle rain. 
Is an eternal A pril to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 

LXXI. 

I'd the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than cnly thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
With many windings, through the vale : — look back! 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract, '' 



LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn^ 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, ''^ 
Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene. 
Love watching madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thunc^ering lauwine^^ — might be worshipp'd 

more; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snoAv, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame. 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olj^mpus, JEtna., Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soractc's height, display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's iiui 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break. 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake. 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by won!** 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily daig which turn'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though time hath taugh' 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought. 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor bard prescribe his aru 
Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heai I, 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we nait. 



;6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVIII. 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires I and control 
In their shul breasts their petty misery. 
Wliat are oui woes and sufferance? Come and see 
The cyoress, iiear thp owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken inrones and temples, ye ! 
\Yhose agonicis are evils of a da}' — 
A world is at our feCi, as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
Childless and crouTiless, in her voiceless woe ; 
An empty urn within her wither'd hands. 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes nqw ; *' 
The verv sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, time, %var, flood, and fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tov.-er went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a limar light, 
And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter, ignorance, hath wrapt and vaap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka !" it is clear — 
'Vhen but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! *2 and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword m bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for TuUy's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Liv)''s pictured page ! — but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for earth, for never shall we see 
Tliat brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
free ! 

Lxxxm. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, ^^ 
Triumphant Sylla! thou who didst subdue 
riiy country's foes ere thou would pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
»)f hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er orostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frowTi 
Anniliilaled senates — Roman, too, 
W itJi all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an Bionrng smi'e a more than earthiy crovm — 



LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which mado 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who w^as named eternal, and aiTay'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd. 
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was almighty hail'tH 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of ^^ctors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
Dou-n to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
W hat crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld hun ■\\-in two realms, and, happier, }'ield his 
breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne o'' force. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. ^'^ 
And show'd not fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her ej'es less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doi ra' 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty, ^^ 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' dm, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in d^ing dignity. 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ? did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Porapey ? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

Lxxxvin. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! ''• 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest: — mother of the mighty heart. 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 
And thy imbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forgtl? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd. 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have. 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd. 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. 
But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave- 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



77 



xc. 

The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, fdllowing him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould,'^^ 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold ; 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd, 

XCI. 

And rame — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
At what: can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd? 

XCII. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For tho sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread : for this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
A universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode. 
And ebbs bat to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God I 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap ? 

Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,'*^ 

Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep. 

And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 

Opmion and omnipotence, — whose veil 

Mantles the earth with darkness, until, right 

And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 

Lest their own judgments should become too bright. 

And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
much hght. 

XCIV. 
And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and, rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 

rheir fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 

xcv. 

I speak not of men's creeds -they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but ot things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly seen, — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
The edict of earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud. 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 



XCVL 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be. 
And freedom find no champion and no chilil 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild. 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? 

xcvn. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime. 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grovvn the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fall. 

xcvni. 

Yet, freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying. 
Streams Uke the thunder-storm. against the wind: 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the north ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days,"*' 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand }'ears of ivy grovvn, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
Wliat was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave 

C. 

But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed 1 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she not 
So honour' d — and conspicuously there. 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot. 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CL 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been, 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ■? — for such the aflc-oufiw 
are. 



BYRON S WORKS. 



CII. 

Pcrchanc. she diea m j-outh : it may be, bovv'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
JNIight gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; *° yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Ol tier consuming cheek tliC autumnal leaf-like red. 

CHI. 

Perchance she died ii age — surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
It may be, still a something of tha day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 

By Rome But whither would conjecture stray? 

Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or pride ! 

CIV. 

1 know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I hijj^ thine inmate known, 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind : 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till 1 had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms i om tae floating wreck which ruin leaves behind; 

cv. 

And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
Built me a Uttle bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
\Vhich rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site. 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
That are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower growTi 
Malted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strewn 
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd. 
Deeming it midnight: — temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Nehold the Imperial Mount ! 'l is thus the mighty falls.*^ 



CVIII. 

There is the moral of all human tales ; '"'' 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First freedom, and then glorj^ — when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And history, with all her volumes vast. 
Hath but one page, — 't is better written here, 
Where gorgeous tyranny had thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear. 

Heart, soul, could seek, tongue asK Away with words^ 

draw near, 

CIX. 
Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages cuid realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of glory's gewgaws shining in the van. 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 

Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to 
buUd? 

ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus, or Trajan's? No — 'tis that of time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,*' 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep-blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home. 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd. 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd. 
But shielded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtures — still we Trajan's name adore.** 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep 
Tarpeian? fittest goal of treason's race. 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors he?p 
Their spoils here ? Yes : and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The forum, where the immortal accents glow. 
And still the eloquent air breathes — bums with Ci*«>ro' 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled. 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before liad freedom's face been veil'd, 
And anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'c 
Trod on the trembling senate's sla^^sh mutta, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser nrostitutes. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CXIV 

Then tum wfc to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants tum to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centiu-ies of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi! last of Romans ! ^^ While the tree 
Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief— 
Her new-born Numa thou — ^^'ith reign, alas ! too brief. 

cxv. 

Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart ^^ 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air. 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
rhou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un^vrinkled. 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place. 
Whose green, wWd margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor must the deUcate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble j bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
I'he rUl runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the \iolet's deep-blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its 
skies. 

cxvni. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all-heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamour'd goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy love — the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replsdng, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expei the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? 



cxx. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plant?' 
Which spring beneath her steps as passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 

For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
CXXI. 
Oh love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose niartj'rs are the broken heart. 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 

As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied— 
wrung — cind riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 

And fevers into false creation : — where. 

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized '' 

In liim alone. Can nature show so fair? 

Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 

Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men — 

The unreach'd paradise of our despair, 

WTiich o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 

And overpowers the page v.here it would bloom again ) 
CXXIII. 
WTio loves, raves — 't is youth's frenzj' — but the cure 
Is bitterer stiU ; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirldwind from the oft-sown %%inds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 

Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most u* 
done. 

CXXIV. 
We wither fi-om our 5'outh, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst. 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay. 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 't is the same. 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name. 

And death the sable smoke where vanishes the fl?me. 
CXXV. 
Few — none — find what they love or could have loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong : 
And circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coining 0%^^ with a crutch-like rod, 

Whose touch tiu-ns hope to dust — the dust we all oave 
trod. 



HO 



BYROIN'S WORKS. 



CXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature — 't is not in 
Tlie harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly ^^ — 't is a base 

Abandonment of reason to resign 

Our right of thought — our last and only place 

Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine: 

Though from our birth the faculty divine 

Is chainM and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 

And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 

Too brightly on the unprepared mind. 

The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
blind. 

CXXVIII. 
Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moon-beams shine 
As *t were its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 

Of an Italian night, whore the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruined battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

CXXX. 

Oh time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only nealer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, fron thy thrift. 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! unto tnee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of ihee a gifl : 

CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, w^here thou hast made a shrine 
\nd temple more divinely desolate. 
Among thj' mightier oflerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
[f thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not : but if calmly I have borne 
Gooa. and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
Tlus iron in my soiu in vain — shall they not mourn? 



CXXXII. 

And thou, who never 3-et of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! ^* 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
Thou, who didst call the furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For tliat unnatural retribution — just. 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my hcari ? — Awake ! thou shalt, an* 
must. 

CXXXIII. 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 

For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 

I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 

With a just weapon, it had llow'd unbound ; 

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 

To thee I do devote it — ihou shalt take 

The vengeance, which shall j'et be sought and found 

Which if / have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

C XXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
I shrink from \\ hat is suffer'd : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse. 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse . 

cxxxv. 

That curse shall be forgiveness — Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven !- 
Have I not had to wTCStle wilh my lot ? 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away j 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy. 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small ^\hispcr of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye. 
Learning to he with silence, would seem true. 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

C XXXVII. 

But I have Hved, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
And mj' frame perish even in conquering pPiO, 
But there is that within me which shall tir'j 
Torture and time, and breathe when I empire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of. 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre. 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remor*'^ of love. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



81 



CXXXVIII. 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk' St in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
(Lnd grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the gladiator lie : ^^ 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 

CXLI. 
He heard it, bi:t he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay 
There were his j'oung barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Rom.an holiday — *^° 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire, 

And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 

CXLH. 

But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, ^ ' 
ISIy voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 

And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 
A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay. 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd . 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 

WTiich streams too much on all years, man, hav« reft 
away. 

1^ 



CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of l\w >. 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; ^^ 
W^hen the hght shines serene but doth not glare. 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 't is on their dust ye tread 

CXLV. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; " 

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 

And when Rome falls — the world." From our owx 

land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her ruin past redemption's skill, 

The world, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye 
will. 

CXLVI. 
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods. 
From ,Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; ^* 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and mai> pioav 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
Shall thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rcdz 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 

Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ; 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around 
them close. ^^ 

cxLvni. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light ^^ 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them fjll ano plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing-mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there, 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and b:ir o 

CXLIX. 

Full swells the deep puro fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart and from the heart we tork 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when th'^ wife 
Blest into mother, in the innocent Iuok, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceivo 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled noofi 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — Osin v.'i» 
Eve's. 



85 BYRON'S WORKS. 


CL. 


CLVL 


But here youth offers to old age the food, 


Thou movest— but increasing with tlie advance. 


The milk of his own gift :— it is her sire, 


Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 


To whom she renders back the debt of blood 


Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 


IJoni with her birth. No : he shall not expire 


Vastness which grows — but grows to hamionize — 


Wl\ile in those warm and lovely veins the fire 


All musical in its immensities : 


Of health and holy feeling can provide 


Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 


Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 


The lamps of gold— and haughty dome vvhich vies 


Than Egypt's river: — from that gentle side 


In air with earth's chief structures, though their framu 


Orink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 


Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds mus/ 


no such tide. 


claim. 


CLI. 


CLYII. 


The starry fable of the \nilky way 


Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 


Has not thy story's purity ; it is 


To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 


A constellation of a sweeter ray, 


And as the ocean many bays will make. 


And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 


That ask the eye — so here condense th}^ soul 


Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 


To more immediate objects, and control 


Where sparkle distant worlds :— Oh, hohest nurse ! 


Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 


No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 


Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 


To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 


In mighty graduations, part by part. 


iVith life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 


The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 


CLII. 


CLVIII. 


Turn to the mole which Adrian rear'd on high, ^'' 


Not by its fault — but thine : our outv.ard sense 


Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles. 


Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 


Colossal copyist of deformity. 


That what we have of feehng most intense 


Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 


Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 


Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 


Outshining and o'erwhekning edifice 


To build for giants, and, for his vain earth, 


Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, 


His shrunken ashes raise this dome : How smiles 


Defies at first our nature's Utileness, 


The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth. 


Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 


To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth. 


Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 


CLin. 


CLIX. 


But 10 ! the dome— the vast and wondrous dome, ^^ 


Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 


To which Diana's marvel was a cell- 


In such a survey than the sating gaze 


Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! 


Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 


I ha/e beheld the Ephesian's miracle— 


The worship of the place, or the mere praise 


It;i columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 


Of art and its great masters, who could raise 


The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; 


What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan » 


I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 


The fountain of sublimity displays 


Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 


Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 


Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 


Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 


CLIV. 


CLX. 


But thou, of temples old, or altars new. 


Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 


Standest alone— with nothing like to thee — 


Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 


Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 


A father's love and mortal's agony I 


Since Zion's desolation, when that He 


With an immortal's patience blending : — vain j 


Forsook his former city, what could be, 


The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 


i Of earthly structures in his honour pUed, 


And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 


Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 


The old man's clench ; the long-envenom'd chain 


Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled 


Rivets the living links,— the enormous asp 


in lids eternal ark of worship undefiled. 


Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 


CLV. 


CLXI. 


Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not , 


Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 


And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 


The God of life, and poesy, and light — 


Expanded by the genius of the spot. 


The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 


Has grown colossal, and can only find 


All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 


A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 


The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 


Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 


With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 


Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined. 


And nostril beautifiil disdain, and might, 


See thy God lace to face, as thou dost now 


And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 


Hi-i HnJv of Hobes, nor be h'asted by his brow. 


Develooing in that one glance the Deity. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



83 



CLXII. 

But in his delicate form — a dream of love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest— 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 

Star-hke, around, until they gather'd to a god ! 
CLXIII. 
And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 

A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
't was wrought. 

CLXIV. 
But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which hvc and suffer — let that pass — 

His shadow fades away into destruction's mass, 
CLXV. 
Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit, in its mortal shroud. 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grown phantoms ; and the 

cloud 
Between us sinks, and all which ever glow'd, 
Till glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 

Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more. 
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 
gore. 

CLxvn. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd. 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasDS a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 



CLxvni. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thcu ? 

Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? 

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 

Some less majestic, less beloved head V 

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled. 

The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 

Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 

The present happiness and promised joy 

Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy 

CLXIX. 

Peasants brmg forth in safety. — Can it be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead • 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy briclal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd daughter of the isles is laid. 
The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 

Like stars to shepherds' eyes: — 'twas but a meteor 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 
Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle wreath of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns,'^^ and hath flun^^ 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 

Within the opposing scale, w hich crushes soon or late, — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no. 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How r.iany ties did that stern moment tear : 
From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppresi 

The land which loved thee so that none could love thee 
best. 

CLXXIII. 
Lo, Nemi ! ''° navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind, which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and ^ivhich mollis 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface weaiS 
A deep cold settled aspect nou-lit can shaiiA. 

All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps thf si\ajfe 



84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXIV. 

Aiifi, near, Albano's scarce divided waves 
Slime from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung tlie Epic war, 
" Arms and the man," whose re-ascending star 
Rose o'er an empire ; — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight." 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roU'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLxxvn. 

Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair spirit for my minister, 
Tli^t I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
I. deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
Hlial I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, tiiou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore : — upon the watery plain 
Tiio wrecks are al! thv deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, hke a drop of rain, 
H«! sinks mto thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Wiihoii' a grave, unkivjU'd uncoffin'd, and unknown. 



CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wie!ri.» 
For earth'? destruction thou dost all despise. 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howhng, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments Mhich thunder-strike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Arrr^ada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

CLxxxn. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they'/ 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decpy 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou. 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almignty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests • in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of eternitj' — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone 

CLXXXIV. 

And I' have loved thee, ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing feai', 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 

CLXXXV. 

IMy task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath li* 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ. — 
Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, ani low 



CHTLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



85 



CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us Unger, — yet — farewell ! 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain. 



NOTES 



CANTO I. 

Note 1. Stanza i. 
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine. 
The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of 
Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, 
are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the 
rock: "One," said the guide, "of a king who broke 
his neck hunting." His Majesty had certainly chosen 
the fittest spot for such an achievement. 

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, 
of immense depth : the upper part of it is paved, and 
now a cow-house. 

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas- 
tery ; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, 
with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and ap- 
parently leading to the interior of the mountain ; prob- 
ably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. 
From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of 
Castahe." 

Note 2. Stanza xx. 
And rest ye at " our Lady's house of woe." 
The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa 
Senora de Pena, ' on the summit of the rock. Below, 
at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Ho- 
norius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From 
the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 
Note 3. Stanza xxi. 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. 
It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the 
assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 
were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
men, but that Englishmen were daily butchered : and, 
so far from redress being obtained, we were requested 
not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- 
ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in 
the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, 
when the streets were not more empty than they gener- 
ally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in 
a carriage with a friend ; had we not fortunately been 
nrmed, I have not the least doubt that we should have 
adorned a Vale instead of telling one. The crime of 



assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicilv 
and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever 
punished ! 

Note 4. Stanza xxiv. 
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! 

The convention of C intra was signed in the palace 
of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord 
Wellington have effaced the follies of C intra. He has, 
indeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed the 
character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, 
and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his 
predecessors. 

Note 5. Stanza xxix. 
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 

The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contams a pal- 
ace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs 
are the most beautiful I ever beheld in point of deco- 
ration ; we did not hear them, but were told that their 
tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is 
termed the Escurial of Portugal. 



1 Since the publication of this poem I have been informed 
of the misapprehension of the term jVossa Senora de Pena. 
It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the m, 
which altars the signification of the word: with it, Peva sig- 
•lifies a rock ; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do 
Tiot think it nf ■ ,ssary to alter the passage, as, though the com- 
mon accepta jn affixed to it is "ourLady of theRock,"Imay 
tvell assumf .le other sense, from the severities practised there. 
I, 2 



Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 

Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 

As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
them. That they have since improved, at least in cou- 
rage, is evident. 

Note 7. Stanza xxxv. 

When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore? 

Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the 
Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after 
some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest 
of Grenada. 

Note 8. Stanza xhiii. , 

No ! as he speeds he chaunts -. — " Viva el Key !" 

"Viva el Rey Fernando!" — Long live King Ferdi- 
nand ! IS the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic 
songs; they are chiefly in dispraise of the old King 
Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have 
heard many of them ; some of the airs are beautiful. 
Godoy, the Pnncipe de la Paz, was born at Badajoz, 
on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally ia the 
ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted 
the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of 
Alcudia, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards 
universally impute the ruin of their country. 

Note 9. Stanza 1. 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue. 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 

The red cockade, with "Fernando Septimo" in th« 
centre. 

Note 10. Stanza li. 

The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match 

All who have seen a battery wU recollect the pj-ra 

midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The 

Sierra Morena was foitified in every defile through 

which I passed in my way to Seville. 

Note 11. Stanza Ivi. 
Foil'd by a woman's hand before a battei i. waU. 
Such were the exploits of the Maid o'" Saragoza, 
When the author was at Seville she walked daily on tn« 



86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Prado, decoralRd vnth medals and orders, by command 
ot" the Junta. 

Note 12. Stanza Iviii. 

The seal love's dimpling finger hath impressed 
Denotes how soft that chin that bears his touch. 
" Sigilla in mento impressa amoris digitulo 
Vestigio demonstrant mollitudmem."— .4«i. Gel. 

Note 13. Stanza Ix. 
Oh, thou Parnassus ! 
These Stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), atthe 
toot of Parnassus, now called Aiaicvpa — Liakura. 

Note 14. Stanza Ixv. 
Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. 

Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 
Note 15. Stanza Ixx. 
Ask ye, BoBotian shades ! the reason why? 
This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
best situation for asking and answering such a ques- 
tion ; not as the birth-place of Pindar, but as the capital 
of Boeotia, where the first riddle was propounded and 
solved. 

Note 16. Stanza Ixxxii. 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 

" Medio de fonte leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat." — Luc. 

Note 17. Stanza Lxxxv. 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud. 
Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
Governor of Cadiz. 

Note 18. Stanza kxxvi. 

" War even to the knife I" 

*War to the knife ;" Palafox's answer to the French 

General at the siege of Saragoza. 

Note 19. Stanza xci. 
, And thou, my friend ! etc. 

The honourable I*. W**. of the Guards, who died of 
a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the 
better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. 

In the short space of one month I have lost her who 
save me being, and most of those who had made that 
being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no 
fiction : 

Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice 1 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain. 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." 

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
rate Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing Col- 
lege, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise 
of mine. His powers of mind, sho\vn in the attainment 
of greatei honours, against the ablest candidates, than 
those of an.}' graduate on record at Cambridge, have 
sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it 
A-a.s acqu"red, while his softer quahties live in the recol- 
.*'ction of friends who loved him too well to envy his 
•uoeriority. 



CANTO II. 

Note 1. Stanza i. 
—despite c*" war and wasting fire — 
P 4.RT of tne Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion 
9« a magazine during the Venetian siege. 



Note 2. Stanza i. 

But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow. 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred alow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts best3W. 

We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which 
the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are 
beheld ; the reflections suggested by such objects arc 
too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the 
littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, 
of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend hia 
coimtry, appear more conspicuous than in the record 
of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now 
is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, 
of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition 
of tyrants, tlie triumph and punishment of generals, is 
now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual 
disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain 
British nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls 
and serpents in the ruins of Babylon,'- were surely less 
degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have the 
plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have 
only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the 
bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when two 
painters contest the privilege of plundering the Par- 
thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of 
each succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip 
subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained for 
the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to 
render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. 

The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire, 
during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, 
and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object oi 
regard : it changed its worshippers ; but still it was a 
place of worslip thrice sacred to devotion: its %'iolatioa 
is a triple sacrilege. But 

" Man, vain man, 
Brest in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, 
As make the angels weep." 

Note 3. Stanza v. 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. 
It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burr 
their dead ; the greater Ajax in particular was interrea 
entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after theii 
decease, and he was indeed neglected who had not an- 
nual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of hi3 
memory by his countr^mien, as Achilles, Brasidas, etc., 
and at last even Antinous, whose death Avas as heroic aa 
his life was infamous. 

Note 4. Stanza x. 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne. 
The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
columns entirely of marble yet survive : originally there 
were 150. These columns, however, are by many sup- 
posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 

Note 5. Stanza xi. 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brire. 
The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

Note 6. Stanza xii. 

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared 

At this moment (January 3, 1809), besides what has 

been already deposited in London, a Hydriot vessel is 

in the Piraeus to receive every possible relic. Thus, as I 

heard a young Greek observe, in common with manv of 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



87 



his countrjTTien — for, lost as they are, they yet feel on 
this occasion — thus may Lord Elgin boast of having 
ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, 
named Lusieri, is the agent of devastation ; and, like 
the Greek Jinder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the 
same profession, he has proved the able instrument of 
plunder. Between this artist and the French consul 
Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the remains for his own 
government, there is now a violent dispute concerning 
a car employed in their conveyance, the wheel of which 
— I wish they were both broken upon it — has been 
locked up by the consul, and Lusieri has laid his com- 
plaint before the Waywode. Lord Elgin has been ex- 
tremely happy in his choice of Signor Lusieri. During 
a residence of ten years in Athens, he never had the 
curiosity to proceed as far as Sunium, ^ till he accom- 
panied us in our second excursion. However, his works, 
as far as they go, are most beautiful : but they are al- 
most all unfinished. While he and his patrons confine 
themselves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, 
sketching columns, and cheapening gems, their Uttle 
absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox-hunting, 
maiden-speechifying, barouche-driving, or any such 
pastime ; but when they carry away three or four ship- 
loads of the most valuable and massy relics that time 
and barbarism have left to the most injured and most 
celebrated of cities ; when they destroy, in a vain at- 
tempt to tear down, those works which have been the 
admiration of ages, I know no motive which can ex 
cuse, no name which can designate, the perpetrators of 
this dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the 
crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plun- 
dered Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. 
The most unblushing impudence could hardly go fur- 
ther than to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls 
of the Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless deface- 
ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one 
compartment of the temple, will never perniit that name 
to be pronounced, by an observer, without execration. 



1 Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens 
itself and Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than 
('ape Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns 
are an inexhaustible source of observation and design ; to the 
philosophei; the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversa- 
tions will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck 
wilh the beauty of the prospect over " Isles that crown the 
Xgean deep ;" but for an Englishman, Colonna has yet an 
additional inteiest, as the actual spotof Falconer's Shipwreck. 
Pallas and Plato are forgotten in tJie recollection of Falconer 
and Campbell : 

" Here in the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
This temple of Minerva may be been at sea from a great dis- 
tance. In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape 
Colonna, tlic view from either side, by land, was less striking 
ihanthe approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, 
we had a narrow escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed 
in the caverns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one of 
iheir prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred 
from aUacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians: 
conjecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a com- 
plete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they remained station- 
ary, and thus saved our party, which was too small to have 
opposed any effectual resistance. 
Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates; there 
" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded Nature picturesque." 

(Sec Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, etc.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of art, has done that for her- 
self. I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior German 
artist; and hope to renew my acquaintance with this and many 
iiiher lirivantine ocenes, by the arriva' of his performances.! 



On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival ; 
but I have some early prepossessions in favour of Greece, 
and do not think the honour of England advanced by 
plunder, whether of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he has 
done less: but some others, more or less noble, yet 
" all honourable men," have done best, because, after 
a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to the 
Wa}"\vode, mining and countermining, they have done 
nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, 
which almost ended in blood-shed ! Lord E.'s "prig," 
— see Jonathan Wylde for the definition of " priggism," 
— quarrelled with another, Gropius ' by name (a very 
good name too for his business), and muttered some- 
thing about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of 
the poor Prussian : this was stated at table to Gropius, 
who laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The 
rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have 
reason to remember their squabble, for they wanted to 
make me their arbitrator. 

Note 7. Stanza xii. 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 

I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of 
my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no com- 
ment with the public, but whose sanction will add ten- 
fold weight to my testimon}', to insert the following ex- 
tract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note 
to the above hues : 

" When the last of the Metopes was taken from the 
Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the su- 
perstructure, with one of the triglyphs, w'as thrown 
down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed ; 
the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the build- 
ing, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, 
in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, TfXoj ' 
— I was present." * 

The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present 
Dis lar. 

Note 8. Stanza xiv. 
Where was thine fpnis, Pallas! thatappall'd 
Stern Alaric and havoc on their way 1 

According to Zozimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- 
ened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that 
the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- 
tish peer. — See Chaxdler. 

Note 9. Stanza xviii. 

the netted canopy. 

The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from fafi- 
ing on deck during action. 

Note 10. Stanza xxix. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. 

Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 



1 This Sr. Gropiu.s was employed by a noble Lord for thd 
sole purpose of sketching, in which he excels ; but I am sorry 
to say, that he has, through the abused sanction of that most 
respectable name, been treading at an humble distance in the 
steps of Sr. Lusieri. A shipfull of his trophies was detained, 
and, I believe, confiscated at Constantinople, in 1810. I am 
most happy to be now enabled to stale, that "this was not in 
his bond ;" that he was employed solely as a painter, and that 
his noble patron disavows all connexion with him, except as 
an artist. If the error in the first and second edition of this 
poem has given the noble Lord a moment's pai.n, 1 am ver? 
sorry for it; Sr. Gropius has assumed for years the name of 
his agent ; and, though I cannot much condemn myself foi 
sharing in the mistake of so many, 1 am happy in being on» 
of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much p easur* 
in contradicting thi^ <is I felt regret in stating it. 



83 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 11. Stanza xxxviii. 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugfred nurse of savage men I 

Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, Cha- 
onia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for 
Alexander; and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Al- 
exander) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of 
the thirty-eighth stanza. I do not know whether I am 
correct in making Scanderbeg the countryman of Alex- 
ander, who w^as born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr. 
Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in 
speaking of his exploits. 

Of Albania, Gibbon remarks, that a country " within 
sight of Italy, is less known than the interior of Ame- 
lica." Circumstances, of Uttle consequence to men- 
tion, led Mr. Hobhouse and myself into that country, 
before we visited any other part of the Ottoman domin- 
ions ; and with the exception of Major Leake, then 
otficially resident at Joannina, no other EngUshmen 
have ever advanced bevond the capital into the interior, 
as that gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha 
was at that time, (October, 1809), carrying on war 
against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, 
a srrong fortress, which he was then besieging : on our 
arrival at Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, his 
Highness's birth-place, and favourite Serai, only one 
day's distance from Berat; at this juncture the Vizier 
had made it his head-quarters. 

After some stay in the capital, we accordingly fol- 
lowed; but though furnished wuth every accommoda- 
tion, and escorted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we 
«ere nine days (on account of the rains) in accom- 
plishing a journey which, on our return, barely occu- 
()iod four. 

On our route we passed two cities, Arg}Tocastro and 
Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size ; 
and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery 
m the vicinity of Zitza and Dclvinachi, the frontier vil- 
lage of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants, I am unwilling to 
descant, because this will be done so much better by 
my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably 
precede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow 
as I would to anticipate him. But some few observa- 
tions are necessary to the text. 

The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in 
dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very moun- 
tains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The 
kilt, though white ; the spare, active form ; ^heir dia- 
lect, Cehic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all car- 
ried me back to Morven. No nation are so detested 
and dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese : the 
Grseks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks 
as IVIosleniS ; and in fact they are a mixture of both, 
Rnd sometimes neither. Their habits are predatory: 
all are armed ; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the 
Montenegrins, Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous; 
le others differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in 
Jiaracter. As Tdr as my o>vn experience goes, I can 
speak favourably. I was attenaed by two, an Infidel 
and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other 
pare of 1 ureey which came within my observation ; and 
more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are 
rare to be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the 
Moslem, Derylsh Tahiri ; the former a man of middle 



age, and the latter about my own. Basili was «tnclJj 
cha/ged by Ali Pacha in person to attend us ; and Der- 
vish w^as one of fifty who accompanied us through the 
forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and on- 
ward to Messalunghi in yEtolia. There I took him Uit3 
my own service, and never had occasion to repent it till 
the moment of m}^ departure. 

When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr. 
H. for England, I was seized with a severe fever in the 
Morea, these men saved my life by frightening away 
my physician, whose throat they threatened to cut if I 
was not cured within a given time. To this consola 
tory assurance of posthumous retribution, and a reso- 
lute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's prescriptions, I attributed 
my recovery. I had left my last remaining English 
servant at Athens ; my dragoman was as ill as m}'self, 
and my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention 
which would have done honour to civilization. 

They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, 
Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was al- 
ways squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; inso- 
much that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit 
of remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his 
having taken a woman from the bath — whom he had 
lawfully bought however — a thing quite contrary to 
etiquette. 

Basil! also was extremely gallant amongst his own 
persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- 
men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most hetero- 
dox manner. Yet he never passed a church without 
crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in 
entering St. Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once 
hf.'izi a place of his worship. On remonstrating with 
him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariablj' an- 
swered, "our church is holy, our priests are thieves:" 
and then he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the 
ears of the first "papas" who refused to assist in any 
required operation, as was always found to be neces- 
sary where a priest had any influence with the Cogia 
Bashi of his village. Indeed a more abandoned race 
of miscreants cannot exist than the lower orders of the 
Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my 
Albanians were summoned to recerve their pay. Basih 
took his with an awkward show of regret at my in- 
tended departure, and marched away to his quarters 
with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for 
some time he was not to be found ; at last he entered, 
just as Signer Logotheti, father to the ci-devant Ang.'o- 
consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek ac- 
quaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, 
but on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping 
his hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out 
of the room weeping bitterly. From that moment to 
the hour of my embarkation, he continued his lament- 
ations, and all our efforts to console him only produced 
this answer, " M' a<p€iv£i,^^ " He leaves me." Signor 
Logotheti, v.ho never wept before for any thing less 
than the loss of a para, ^ melted ; the padre of the 
convent, my attendants, my visitors — and I verily be- 
lieve that even " Sterne's foohsh fat scullion" would 
have left her " fish-kettle" to svTnpathize with the un 
affected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 



1 P about the fourth of a farthing. 



For my own part, when I remembered that, a short 
lime before my departure from England, a noble and 
most intimate associate had excused himself from tak- 
ing leave of me because he had to attend a relation 
" to a milliner's," I felt no less surprised than humili- 
ated by the present occurrence and the past recoUec- 
aon. 

That Dervish would leave me with some regret was 
to be expected: when master and man have been 
scrambling over the mountains of a dozen provinces to- 
gether, they are unwilling to separate ; but his present 
feelings, contrasted with his native ferocity, improved 
my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost 
feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, on 
our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my ser- 
vice gave him a push in some dispute about the bag- 
gage, which he unluckily m.istook for a blow ; he spoke 
not, but sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. 
Foreseeing the consequences, Ave endeavoured to ex- 
plain away the affront, which produced the following 
answer: — "I have Aeen a robber, I am a soldier; no 
captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I have eaten 
your bread ; but by that bread ! (a usual oath) had it 
been otherwise, I would have stabbed the dog your ser- 
vant, and gone to the mountains." So the affair ended, 
but from that day forward he never thoroughly forgave 
the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. 

Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- 
tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic : be that as 
it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. It is 
very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull round- 
about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian party had 
so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultiva- 
tors of the earth in the provinces, who have also that 
appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of 
countenance ; and the most beautiful women I ever be- 
held, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the 
road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- 
atrical ; but this strut is probably the effect of the ca- 
pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their 
long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cour- 
age in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though 
they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never 
saw a good Arnaout horseman : my own preferred the 
English saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 

Note 12. Stanza xxxix. 



-atixl pass'd the barren spot, 



Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. 
Ithaca. 

Note 13. Stanza xl. 

Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 

Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 

battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but 

less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras ; here the 

author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 

Note 14. Stanza xli. 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 
Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory 
(the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown her- 
self. 

17 



Note 15. Stanza xlv. 

many a Roman chief and Asian king. 

It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of 
Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

Note 16. Stanza xlv. 
Look where the second Cassar's trophies rose. 
Nicopohs, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippo- 
drome survives in a few fragments. 

Note 17. Stanza xlvii. 
Acherusia's lake. 



According to Pouqueville, the Lake of Yanina ; bat 
Pouqueville is always out. 

Note 18. Stanza xlvii. 
To greet Albania's chief. 
The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man 
there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels- 
Note 19. Stanza xlvii. 

Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 

Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 

castle of Suli, withstood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen 

years : the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this 

contest there were several acts performed not unworthy 

of the better days of Greece. 

Note 20. Stanza xlviii. 
Monastic Zitza, etc. 
The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour- 
ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pa- 
chaUck. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Ache- 
ron) fio\'\ s, and not far from Zitza forms a fine cataract. 
The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though 
the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and 
yEtolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, 
in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are 
very inferior ; as also every scene in Ionia or the Troad : 
I am almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- 
nople, but, from the different features of the last, a 
comparison can hardly be made. 

Note 21. Stanza xlix. 
Here dwells the caloyer 
The Greek monks are so called. 

Note 22. Stanza li. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. 
The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vo 
canic. 

Note 23. Stanza h. 

behold black Acheron '. 

Now called Kalamas. 

Note 24. Stanza hi. 

in his white capote — 

Albanese cloak. 

Note 25. Stanza Iv. 
The sun had suns behind vast Tomerit. 
Anciently Mount Tomarus. 

Note 26. Stanza Iv. 
And Laos wide and fierce came roarmg oy. 
The river Laos was full at the time the author passetj 
it : nnd, immediately above Tepaleen, was to tjie '^y e w 



90 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



wide as the Thames at Westminster ; at least in the 
opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr. 
Hobhouse. In the summer it must be much narrower. 
It certainly is the finest river in the Levant ; neither 
Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, 
approached it in breadth or beauty. 

Note 27. Stanza Ixvi. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. 
Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 
Note 28. Stanza L\xi. 

the red wine circling fast. 

The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
and indeed very few of the others. 

Note 29. Stanza Ixxi. 

Each Palikaj his sabre from him cast. 

Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 

from TlaXiKapi, a general name for a soldier amongst 

tlie Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it means 

properly "a lad." 

Note 30. Stanza Ixxii. 
While thus in concert, etc. 
As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
the Illyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral 
songs, which are generally chaunted in dancing by men 
or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely 
a kind of chorus, without meaning, Uke some in our 
own and all other languages. 
Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; 



Naciarura, popuso. 
Naciarura na civin 
Ha pe uderini ti hin. 
Ila pe uderi escrotini 
Ti vin ti mar servetini. 

Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 

Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 

Gi egem spirta esimiro. 
Caliriote vu le funds 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 

Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 
Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia 



V a le ni il chc cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 
Fiu hari ti tirete 
Plu huron cia ora seti. 



and shppers but a weU-tumed and sometimes very white 
ancle. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer than the 
Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. They 
preserve their shape much longer also, from being al- 
ways in the open air. It is to be observed that the 
Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of this 
song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, are 
spelt according to their pronunciation. They are copied 
by one who speaks and understands the dialect per- 
fectly, and who is a native of Athens. 



be thou silent. 
I come, I run; open the 

door that I may enter. 
Open the door by halves 

that I may take my tur- 
ban. 
Cahriotes ' with the dark 

eyes, open the gats that 

I may enter. 
Lo, lo, I hear thee, my 

soul. 
An Arnaout girl, in costlj' 

garb, walks with graceful 

pride. 
Caliriot maid of the dark 

eyes, give me a kiss. 
If I have kissed thee, what 

hast thou gained? My 

soul is consumed with 

fire. 
Dance lightly, more gently, 

and gently still. 
I\Iake not so much dust to 

destroy your embroidered 

hose. 

The las-v stanza would puzzle a commentator: the men 
nave certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, 
but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be 
addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots 



Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. 

Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. 

Uti tasa roba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua. 

Roba stinori ssidua 
Qu mi sim vetti dua. 
Qurmini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 

Utara pisa vaisisso me simi 

rin ti bapti. 
Eti mi hire a piste si gui 

dendroi tiltati. 
Udi vura udorini udiri ci- 

cova cilti mora 
Udorini talti hollna u ede 

caimoni mora. 



I am wounded by thy love, 
and have loved but to 
scorch myself. 

Thou hast consumed me ! 
Ah, maid! thou hast 
struck me to the heart. 

I have said I wish no dow- 
ry, but thine eyes and 
eyelashes. 

The accursed dowry I want 
not, but thee only. 

Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 
flames. 

I have loved thee, maid, 
vdth a sincere soul, but 
thou hast left me like a 
withered tree. 

If I have placed my hand 
on thy bosom, what have 
I gained? my hand is 
withdrawn, but retains 
the flame. 



The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently 
(Jalicio'ea " for what reason I inquired in vain. 



I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- 
ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An 
idea something similar to the thought in the last hnes 
was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in 
contact with one of his *' v-^okoX-ioi,'' Critobulus or 
Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting 
pain as far as his shoulder for some das's after, and 
therefore very properly resolved to teach liis disciples 
in future without touching them. 

Note 3L Seng, stanza L 
Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy 'larum afar, etc. 
These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- 
nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by 
the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 

Note 32. Song, stanza 8. 
Remember the moment when Previsa fell. 
It was taken by stonn from the French. 

Note 33. Stanza Lxxiii. 
Fair Greece 1 sad relic ofdeparied worth, etc. 
Some thoughts on this subject will be found in tlia 
subjoined papers. 

Note 34. Stanza Ixxiv. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
TJiou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train. 

Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 

has stOl considerable remains ; it was seized by Thrasy 

bulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



9! 



Note 35. Stanza Ixxvii. 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. 
When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
years. See Gibbon. 

Note 36. Stanza Lxxvii. 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 
Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 

Note 37. Stanza Ixxxv. 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — 
On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
tense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on the 
plains, even in winter. 

Note 38. Stanza Ixxxvi. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 

Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 

Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was 

dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. 

The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense 

cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till 

the end of time. 

Note 39. Stanza Lxxxrs. 
When Blarathon became a magic word — 
" Siste, viator — heroa calcas !" was the epitaph on 
the famous Count Merci ; — what then must be our 
feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two 
hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The prin 
cipal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few 
or no relics, as vases, etc. were found by tlie excavator. 
The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at 
the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hun^ 
dred pounds ' Alas ! — " Expende — quot libras in duce 
summo — invenies ? " — was the dust of IMiltiades worth 
no more ? it could scarcely have fetched less if sold by 
weight. 

PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. 
1. 

Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say 
something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to 
have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of 
a gentleman than a "Disdar Aga" (who bj' the by is 
not an aga), the most impolite of petty officers, the 
greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw (except Lord 
E.), and the unworthy occupant of the Acropohs, on a 
handsome annual stipend of 150 piastres (eight pounds 
sterling), out of wliich he has only to pay his garrison, 
the most iU-regulated corps in the ill-regulated Otto- 
man Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was once 
the cause of the husband of "Ida of Athens" nearly 
suffering the bastinado ; and because the said "Disdar" 
is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife, so that I 
exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separate 
maintenance in behalf of " Ida." Having premised 
thus much, on a matter of such import to the readers 
of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention her 
birth-place. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those 
associations which it would be pedantic and super- 
fluous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens 



ould render it the favourite of all who have eves for 
art or nature. The chmate, to me at least, appeared a 
perpetual spring ; during eight months I never passed a 
day without being as many hours on horseback ; rain 

extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a 
cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, 
and every part of the East which I visited, except Ionia 
and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate 
to our own ; and at Constantinople, where I passed 
May, June, and part of July (1810), you might "damn 
the cUmate, and complain of spleen," five days out of 
seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but 
the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of 
Megara, the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear 
Hesiod will still be found correct in his description of 
a Boeotian winter. 

We found at Livadia an " esprit fort" in a Greek 
bishop, of all free-thinkers ! 1 lis worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not 
before his flock), and talked of a mass as a " coglio- 
neria." It was impossible to think better of him for 
this : but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his ab- 
surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed 
of Thebes, the remains of Chaeronea, the ])lain of 
Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of 
Trophonius), was the only remarkable thing we saw 
before we passed Mount Cithseron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least, my com- 
panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- 
sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of 
Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may 
contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen 
streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided 
to our satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and 
even that had a villanous twang, probably from the 
snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever 
like poor Doctor Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, 
the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, HjTnettus, the ^gean, 
and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
opinion, a more glorious prospect than even C intra or 
Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, 
the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can 
equal it, though so superior in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but, except- 
ing the view from the monastery of IMe gasp eh on (which 
is inferior to Zitza in a command of countiw), and the 
descent from the mountains on the waj'^ from Tripohtza 
to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond 
the name. 

" Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos." 
Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but 
an Argive ; and (with reverence be it spoken) it does 
not deserve the epithet. And if the PoljT^ices of Sta- 
tins, "In m.ediis audit duo httora campis," did actually 
hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Cormth, he 
had better ears than have ever been worn in sucn a 
journey since. 

"Athens," say? a celebrated topographer, "is stlU l}i« 
most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may «.. 
Greece, but not of the Greeks; for Joannina, in Epiii^j 
is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be supe 
rior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of 
its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable "<« 



92 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



their cunning , and the lower orders are not improperly 
characterized m that proverb, which classes them with 
" the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negro- 
pont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc., there was 
never a difTerence of opinion in their estimate of the 
Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- 
puted with great acrimony. 

M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty 
years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an 
artist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have 
known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently 
declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve 
to be emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds of their 
'•national and individual depravity," while he forgot 
that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which 
can only be removed by the measure he reprobates. 

M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long 
settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing 
gravity: " Sir, they are the same canaille that existed 
in the days of Themistocles .'" an alarming remark to 
the " Laudator temporis acti." The ancients banished 
Themistocles ; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque : 
thus great men have ever been treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most 
of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc. of passage, 
came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the 
same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn 
the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by 
his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a httle staggering, when the 
Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 
of the day, who divide between them the power of 
Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the 
poor Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in 
the utter condemnation, "nulla virtute redemptum," 
of the Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in par- 
ticular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it. 
Knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less 
than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most 
threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by per- 
sons of wit, and honour, and regular commonplace 
books : but, if I may say this without offence, it seems 
to me rather hard to declare so ])ositively and pertina- 
ciously, as almost every body has declared, that the 
Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- 
gyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De Pauw 
and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent; they will 
never be sovereigns, as heretofore, and God forbid they 
ever should I but they may be subjects without being 
slaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they 
are free and industi'ious, and such may Greece be 
nereaftcM", 

At piesent, like the Catholics of Ireland, and the 
..ews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
!<nd heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and 
physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a 
struggle against truth; they are vicious in their own 
rielence. They are so unused to kindness, that when 
;V.ev occasionally meet with it, tfiey look upon it with 



suspicion, as a dog oflen beaten snaps at your fingera 
if you attempt to caress him. " They are ungrateful, 
notoriously, abominably ungrateful!" — this is the gen- 
eral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis ! for what are 
they to be grateful ? Where is the human being that 
ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks ? Thev 
are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and t:- 
the Franks for their broken promises and lying coun- 
sels. They are to be grateful to the artist who engraves 
their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries them 
away : to the traveller whose janissary flogs them, and 
to the scribbler whose journal abuses them ! This is the 
amount of their obligations to foreigners. 

II. 

Franciscan Convent^ Athens, January 23, 1811. 

Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the 
earher ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist 
in different countries ; whose inhabitants, however di- 
vided in religion and manners, almost all agree in op- 
pression. 

The English have at last compassionated their ne- 
groes, and, under a less bigoted government, may 
probably one day release their Catholic brethren: but 
the interposition of foreigners alone can emancipate the 
Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a 
chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews have 
from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
at least the younger men of Europe devote much of 
their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, 
which would be more usefully spent in mastering theii 
own. Of the moderns, we are perhaps more neglectful 
than they deserve ; and while every man of any pre- 
tensions to learning is tirmg out his youth, and often his 
age, in the study of the language and of the harangues 
of the Athenian demagogues, in favour of freedom, the 
real or supposed descendants of these sturdy republicans 
are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, although 
a very slight effort is required to strike off their 
chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising 
again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculous ; 
as the restof theworid must resume its barbarism, after 
re-asserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there seems 
to be no very great obstacle, except in the apathy of the 
Franks, to their becoming a useful dependencj'', or 
even a free state with a proper guarantee ; — under 
correction, however, be it spoken, for many and well- 
intormed men doubt the practicability even of this. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they 
are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their 
probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Russians; 
but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by 
that power, and the dreadful lesson they received afler 
the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been 
forgotten. The French they dislike ; although the 
subjugation of the rest of Europe will, probablj', be 
attended by the deliverance of continental Greece. 
The islanders look to the English for succour, as they 
have very lately possessed themselves of the Ionian 
republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever appear witti 
arms in their hands will be welcome ; and when that 
day arrives. Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans ; they 
cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, and 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



93 



speciila('ng on what they may be — let us look at them 
as they are. 

And here it in impossible to reconcile the contrariety 
of opinions : some, particularly the merchants, decry- 
ing the Greeks in the strongest language ; others, gen- 
erally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and 
publishing veiy curious speculations grafted on their 
former state, Avliich can have no more effect on their 
present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the fu- 
ture fortunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the " natural 
alUes" of Enghshmen ; another, no less ingenious, will 
not al'cw them to be the alhes of any body, and denies 
their very descent from the ancients ; a third, more in- 
genious than either, builds a Greek empire on a Russian 
foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of 
Catherme 11. As to the question of their descent, what 
can it import v/hether the Mainotes are the lineal La- 
conians or n<jt ? or the present Athenians as indigenous 
as the bees of HjTnettus, or as the grasshoppers, to 
which they once likened themselves ? What Enghsh- 
man car-js if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or 
Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welchman, is afflicted 
with a desire of being descended from Caractacus ? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
thmgs of this world, as to render even their claims to 
antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel then in INIr. 
Thornton, to disturb them in the possession of all that 
time has left them ; viz. their pedigree, of which they 
are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call their 
own. It would be worth while to publish together, and 
compare, the works of Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, 
Eton and Sonnini ; paradox on one side, and prejudice 
on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives himself to have 
claims to pubhc confidence from a fourteen years' resi- 
dence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of the 
Turks, but this can give him no more insight into the real 
etate of Greece and her inhabitants, than as many years 
spent in Wappine, into that of the Western Highlands. 

The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and if 
Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I 
should place no great reliance on his information. I 
actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of tlieir 
Uttle general intercourse with the city, and assert of 
himseb", with an air of triumph, that he had been but 
four times at Constantinople in as many years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece 
as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of 
Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does 
he arrogate the right of condemning by wholesale a body 
of men, of whom he can know Uttle ? It is rather a cu- 
rious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who so la\'ishly 
dispraises PouquevHle on every occasion of mentioning 
the Turks, has yet recourse to him as authority on the 
Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr. 
Fouqueville is as httle entitled to that appellation, as 
Mr. Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information 
on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their 
."■iterature ; nor is there any probabihty of our being bet- 
ter acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- 
mate, or tlieir independence confirmed : the relations of 
passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the 
M 



invectives of angry factors ; but till som*> thing more, 
can be attained, we must be content with the little to 
be acquired from similar sources. ' 

However defective these may be, they are preferable 
to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of 
the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such as 
De Pauw ; who, when he asserts that the British breed 
of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spar- 
tans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal know- 
ledge of English horses and Spartan men. His "phi- 
losophical observations" have a much better claim to 
the title of " poetical." It could not be expected that 
he who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- 
brated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on 
the modern Greeks : and it fortunately happens, that 
the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers re- 
futes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of 
De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a 
reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and 
pohcy, have been amply punished by three centuries 
and a half of captivity. 

HI. 
Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. 
" I must have some talk with this learned Theban." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople ti* 
this city, I received the thirty-first number of the Edin 
burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this 
distance an accei)table one, from tlie Captain of an 
English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3, 
containing the revievv of a French translation of Strabo, 
there are introduced some remarks on the modern 
Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On those 
remarks I mean to ground a few observations, and 
the spot where I now write will, I hope, be siiff.cient 
excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
connected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated 
of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was bom 



1 A word, eji passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqne- 
ville, who have been guilty between them of sadly clipping 
the Sultan's Turkish. 

Dr. Pouaueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swa'l 
lowed corrosive sublimate, in such quantities that he acquired 
the name of " Sulcvman YcT/cn,^' i. e. quoth the doctor, 
'' Sulei/man, the eater of corrosive sublimate.'''' "Aha," 
thinks iMr. Thornton, (ansry with the doctor for the filueth 
time) "have I caught you 7" — Then, in a note twice the 
thickness of the doctor's anecdote, he questions the doctor's 
proficiency in the Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own. 
— "For," observes Mr. Thornton, (after inflicting on us the 
tough participle of a Turkish verb), "it means nothing more 
than Sideyman the eater,''' and ouiite cashiers the supple- 
mentary "sublimate." Now both are right and both are 
wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he next resides " fourteen 
years in the factory," will consult his Turkish dictionary, or 
ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he v/iil discover that 
" Sulei/ma'n j/eycn," put together discreetly, mean the 
" Sicallower of sublimate," without any " Sulei/7nmi'^ in the 
case ; " Suleyma" signifying "corrosive sublimate," and not 
being a proper name on this occasion, although it be an or- 
thodox name enough with the addition of v After Mr 
Thornton's frequent hints of profound orientalism, he might 
have found tins out before he sang such pa;ans over Dr 
Fouqueville. 

After this, I think "Travellers versus Factors" shall i/o 
our motto, though the above Mr. Thornton has condemned 
"hoc genus omne," tor mistake and misrepresentation. " Ke 
Sutor ultra crepidam," "No merchant bc:yond his bales' 
N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton 'Sutor" in n. $ 
proper name. 



91 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



at Scio (iti the Review Smyrna 13 stated, I have reason 
to think, incorrectly), and, besides the translation of 
Beccaria, and other works mentioned by the reviewer, 
has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may 
trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately 
arrived from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here 
in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikogloon. ^ 
Ooray has 'ecently been involved in an unpleasant 
controversy with M. Gail,^ a Parisian commentator and 
editor of some translations from the Greek poets, in 
consequence of the Institute having awarded him the 
prize for his version of Hippocrates " Ucpi ISdruv,^' 
etc. to the disparagement, and consequently displeasure, 
of the said Gail. To his exertions, literarj- and patriotic, 
great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise 
ought not to be withheld from tlie two brothers Zosimado 
(merchants settled Ln Leghorn), who sent liim to Paris, 
and maintained him, for the express purpose of eluci- 
dating the ancient, and adding to the modern researches 
of his countrymen. Coray, however, is not considered 
b}'^ his countrymen equal to some who lived in the two 
last centuries : more particularly Dorotheus of Mity- 
lene, whose Kellenic writings are so much esteemed by 
the Greeks, that IMeletius terms him, " Mira rbv 
Oovkv6iSt]v Kal s.svo^u)VTa apiarog 'EXX?yi'a)V." (P. 224. 
Ecclesiastical History, vol. iv.) 

Panagiotes Kodj-ikas, the translator of Fontenelle, 
and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more 
particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in 
Joannina, ai*e also in high repute among their literati. 
The last-mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin 
a work on " True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine 
n. But Polyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be 
the on!}' modern except Coray, who has distinguished 
himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Poly- 
zois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a 
nun>ber of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor 
less than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- 
tents of which he had no concern beyond his name on 
the title-page, placed there to secure his property in the 
publicatton, and he was, moreover, a man utterly des- 
titute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, how- 
ever, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have 
edited the Epistles of Aristtenetus. 

It is to be regretted that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
the Greeks received their publications, particularlj' 
Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for 
children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their original works, the Geography of Mele- 
tius. Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theo- 
logical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met 
with : their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and 
four lan^juaoes, are numerous and excellent. Their 



1 I havo in my possession an ex'',dllent Lexicon ^-pt- 
yAuo-ffov, ' which I received in exchange from S. G — , Esq., 
for a small gem : my antiquarian friends have never forgotten 

., or forgiven me. 

2 In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of "throwing 
the insolvent Helloniste out of the windows." On this a 
i'rench critic exclaims, "Ah, my Go(? ' throw a Helleniste 
(lut of the window I what sacrilege I" It certainly would be 
ft serious business for those authors who dwell in the attics: 
buf I iiavo (luoted the passage merely to prove the similarity 
•it' style iimon? the controversialists of all polished countries : 
l.undor or Edmburijh could hardly parallel this Parisian 
•t'ullition 



poetry is in rhyme. The most smgular piece I have latsly 
seen, is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, Eng* 
lish, and French traveller, and the Waywode of Wal- 
lachia (or Blackbey, as they term liim), an archbishop, 
a merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in succes- 
sion ; to all of whom under the Turks the writer attrib- 
utes their present degeneracy. Their songs are some- 
times pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally 
unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the best is the famous 
" AevTE TTalSes rCov 'EXXjyvwi'," by the unfortunate Riga. 
But from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now 
before me, only fifteen can be found who have touched 
on any theme except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangements, 
if possible, for printing in London a translation of Bar- 
thelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other 
opportunity, unless he despatches the MS. to Vienna 
by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The reviewer mentions a school established at Heca- 
tonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebastiani; 
he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali ; a town 
on the continent where that institution, for a hundred 
students and three professors, still exists. It is ti-ue, 
that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, imde^ 
the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were constructing 
a fortress instead of a college ; but on investigation, 
and the payment of some purses to the Divan, it has 
been permitted to continue. The principal professor, 
named Veniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is stated to be a 
man of talent, but a free-thinker. He was born ir. 
Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, 
Latin, and some Freuik languages, besides a smattering 
of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this 
topic than may allude to the article in question, I can- 
not but observe that the reviewer's lamentation over the 
fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it 
with these words : " the change is to be atlributed to 'heir 
misfortunes, father than to any physical degradation.'''' 
It may be true, that the Greeks are not physically de- 
generated, and that Constantinople contained, on the 
day when it changed masters, as many men of six feet 
and upwards, as in the hour of prosperity ; but ancient 
history and modern poUtics instruct us that something 
more than physical perfection is necessary to preser\'C 
a state in vigour and independence ; and the Greeks, 
in particular, are a melancholy example of the near con- 
nexion between moral degradation and national decay. 

The reviewer mentions a plan, " we believe,'" by Po- 
temkin, for the purification of the Romaic, and I havo 
endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of 
its existence. There was an academy in St, Petersburg 
for the Greeks : but it was suppressed by Paul, and has 
not been revived by his successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip of the 
pen, in p. -58, No. xxxi, of the Edmburgh Review, v.here 
these words occur : — " We are told that when the capi 
tal of the East yielded to Solyman" — It may be pre 
sumed that this last word will, in a futiu-e edition, be 
altered to Mahomet II. 1 The "ladies of Constantinople," 



1 In a former number of tlie Edinburgh Reviesv, lg08, it La 
observed, "Lord Byron passed some of his early years in 
Scotland, where he might have learned that pibroch does no' 
mean a bagpipe, any more ih&nduet means Oi fiddle."" finery, 
— Was it in Scotland that Uie young gentlemen of the CdiD- 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



9i 



it seems, at that neriod spoke a dialect, " which would 
not have disgraced the lips of an Athenian." I do not 
know how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
m general, and the Athenians in particular, are much 
altered ; being far from choice either in their dialect or 
expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to a 
proverb : 

" a A.Qr]va irpoTTj %wpa 

Tt yai5apovs Tpe<p£is rwpa ;" 

In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence: — 
" The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, 
though the compositions of the church and palace some- 
times affected to copy the purity of the Attic models." 
Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult 
to conceive that the " ladies of Constantinople," in the 
reign of the last Csesar, spoke a purer dialect then Anna 
Comnena wrote tliree centuries before : and those royal 
pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, 
although the princess yAwrrav tt^fv AKPI£i22 Attlkl- 
^ovcrav. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek 
is spoken: in the latter there is a flourishing school 
under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupU of Psalida's, who is 
making a tour of observation through Greece : he is in- 
telligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner 
of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the 
spirit of inquiry is not dormant amongst tlie Greeks. 

The reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author of the 
beautiful poem " Horaj lonicee," as qualified to give de- 
tails of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, 
and also of their language : but Mr. Wright, though a 
good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where 
cie states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- 
mate nearest to the Hellenic : for the Albanians speak 
1 Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aber- 
ieenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina (where, 
next to Fanal, the Greek is ptorest), although the 
capital of Ali Pacha's dombions, is not in Albania but 
Epirus ; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper up 
to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond which I did not 
advance), they speak worse Greek than even the Athen- 
ians. I was attended for a year and a half by two of 
these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is 
lUyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen 
(whom I l>ave seen, not only at home, but to the amount 
of twenty thousand in the army of Veli Pacha) praised 
tor their Greek, but often laughed at for their provincial 
barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written 
to me by Notaras, the Cogia Backi, and others by the 
drat^oman of the Caimacam of the Morea (which last 
governs in Yeli Pacha's absence) are said to be favour- 



burgh Review learned that Soh/man means Mahomet II. any 
more than criticism means infallibility/ 7 — but thus it is, 
" Cadimus inque vicem preebemus crura sagittis." 
The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from 
the great similarity of the two words, and the total absence 
of error from the former pages of the literary leviathan), that 
i slioiild have passed it over as in the text, had I not perceived 
in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation on all 
such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and 
syllables are subjects of disquisition and transposition ; and the 
above-mentioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly 
propelled me to hint how much easier it is to be critical than 
correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed many a triumph on 
«uch victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for 
Jhe present. 



able specimens of theii" epistolary style. I also received 
some at Constantinople from private persons, written 
in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique 
character. 

The reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the 
tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 
59) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own 
language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely 
to understand the ancient Greek, because he is perfect 
master of the modern ! This observation follows a para- 
graph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study of 
the Romaic, as " a powerful auxihary," not onlj' to the 
traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the classical 
scholar ; in short, to every body except the only person 
who can be thoroughly acquainted with its uses : and 
by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjectured 
to be probably more attainable by "foreigners" than 
by ourselves ! Now I am inclined to think, that a Dutch 
Tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon bloood) 
would be sadly perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," or any 
other given "Auchinlech MS." with or without a gram- 
mar or glossary ; and to most apprehensions it seems 
evident, that none but a native can acquire a competent, 
far less complete, knowledge of oiu- obsolete idioms. 
We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, but no 
more beheve him than we do Smollett's Lismahago, who 
maintains that the purest English is spoken in Edin- 
burgh. That Coray may err is very possible ; but if he 
does, the fault is in the man rather than in his mother 
tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the gi'eatest aid 
to the native student. — Here the Reviewer proceeds to 
business on Strabo's translators, and here I close my 
remarks. 

Sir. W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen 
Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole 
and many others now in England, have all the requisitco 
to furnish details of this fallen people. The few obser- 
vations I have offered I should have left where I made 
them, had not the article in question, and, above all, 
the spot where I read it, induced me to advert to those 
pages, which the advantage of my present situation 
enabled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have endeavoured to waive the personal feelings 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part of 
the Edinburgh Re\aew ; not from a wish to conciliate 
the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance 
of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from 
a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- 
ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more 
particularly at this distance of time and place. 

ADDITIONAL NOTE, ON THE TURKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been mucti 

exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminished of 

late years. The Mussulmans have been beaten into a 

kind of sullen civility, veiy comfortable to voyagei s. 

It is hazardotis to say much on the subject of Turlcs 
and Turkey ; since it is possible to live amongst them 
twenty years without acquiring information, at least 
from themselves. As far as m}'^ own slight experiencfj 
carried me, I have no complaint to make ; but am in 
debted t'br many civilities (I might almost say iut 
friendship), and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son 
Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high raim 
in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor oif 



i^b 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Athiuis, and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as 
social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
table. Daring the carnival, when our English party 
were masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more happy to "receive masks" than any dowager in 
Grosvenor-square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his 
friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried from 
table perfectly qualified for any club in Christendom, 
while the worthy Waywode himself triumphed in his 
fall. 

In al! money transactions with the Moslems, I ever 
found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
In ti-ansacting business with them, there are none of 
those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, dif- 
ference of exchange, commission, etc. etc., uniformly 
found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even 
on the first houses in Pera. 

With regard to presents, and estE^blished custom in 
the East, you will rarely find youi'self a loser ; as one 
worth acceptance is generally returned by another of 
similar value — a horse or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers 
are formed in the same school with those of Christian- 
ity; but there does not exist a more honourable, 
friendly, and high-spirited character than the true Turk- 
ish provincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It 
is not meant here to designate the governors of towns, 
but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess 
lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece and 
Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as 
the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to 
civihzation. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our 
country towns, would be more incommoded in England 
than a Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regi- 
mentals are the best travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religion, and different sects 
of Islamism, may be found in D'Olisson's French ; of 
their manners, etc., perhaps in Thorton's English. The 
Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to be 
despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are 
superior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce 
what they are, we can at least say what they are not : 
they are not treacherous, they are not cowardly, they 
uo not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor has an 
er.emy advanced to their capital. They are faithful to 
tneir sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, and devout 
to tneir God without an inquisition. Were they driven 
from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Russians 
enthroned in their stead, it would become a question, 
whether Europe would gain by the exchange. England 
would certainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are so 
gf'.nerally, and sometimes justly, accused, it may be 
doubted, always excepting France and England, in what 
useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other 
nations. Is it in the common arts of life ? In their 
manufactures ? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo ? 
wr is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and 
• aught, than a Spaniard ? Are their Pachas worse edu- 
cated than a grandee ? or an Effendi than a JCnight of 
81. Jago? I think no. 

1 remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
axiuna: whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in 



the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now this 
question from a boy of ten years old proved that his 
education had not been neglected. It may be doubted 
if an English boy at that age knows the difference of 
the Divan from a College of Derviscs; but I am vc-y 
sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, sur- 
rounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, 
had learned that there was such a thing as a parlia- 
ment, it were useless to conjecture, unless we su])pose 
that his instructors did not confine his studies to the 
Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established 
which are very regularly attended ; and the poor are 
taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
peril. I believe the system is not yet printed (though 
there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books 
printed on the late military institution of the Nizam 
Gedidd): nor have I heard whether the Mufti and the 
Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam and the 
Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous 
youth of the turban should be taught not to ' ' pray to 
God their way." The Greeks, also — a kind of Eastern 
Irish papists — have a college of their own at Maj'nooth 
— no, at Haivali ; where the heterodox receive much 
the same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as 
the Catholic college from the English legislature. Who 
shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant bigots, 
when they thus evince the exact proportion of Chris- 
tain charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous 
and orthodox of all possible kingdoms ? But, though 
they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to 
participate in their privileges : no, let them fight their 
battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drul)bed in 
this world, and damned in the next. And shall we 
then emancipate our Irish Helots ? Mahomet forbid ! 
We should then be bad Mussuhnans, and worse Chris- 
tians ; at present we unite the best of both — Jesuitical 
faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish 
toleration. 



APPENDIX. 



Amoa'gst an enslaved people, obliged to have recourse 
to foreign presses even for their books of religion, it is 
less to be wondered at that we find so few publications 
on general subjects, than that we find any at all. The 
whole number of the Greeks, scattered up and dowi« 
the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, at 
most, to three millions ; and yet, for so scanty a num- 
ber, it is impossible to discover any nation with so 
gi-eat a proportion of books and their authors, as the 
Greeks of the present century. " Ay," but say the 
generous advocates of oppression, who, while they as- 
sert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them 
from dispelling it, " ay, but these are mostly, if not 
all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for 
nothing." Well! and pray what else can tliey write 
about? It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, partic- 
ularly an Enghshman, who may abuse the govern- 
ment of his own country ; or a Frenchman, w ho may 
abuse every government except his own, and who may 
range at will over every philosophical, religious, scien- 
tific, sceptical, or moral subject, sneering at the Greek 
legends. A Greek must not write on ])olitics, and can- 
not touch on science for want of instruction: if he 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



97 



Joubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; therefore 
his countrymen are not poisoned with modern philoso- 
phy ; and, as to morals, thanks to the Turks! there are 
no such things. What then is left him, if he has a turn 
for scribbling ? ReHgion and holy biography : and it is 
natural enough that those who have so little in this life 
should look to the next. It is no great wonder then that 
in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek wri- 
ters, many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen 
should have touched on any thing but religion. The 
catalogue alluded to is contained in the iwenty-sixth 
chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's Ecclesiastical 
History. From this I subjoin an extract of those who 
have written on general subjects ; which will be followed 
by some specimens of the Romaic. 

LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS.' 

Neophitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has 
published an extensive grammar, and also some politi- 
cal regulations, which last were left unfinished at his 
death. 

Prokopius, of Moscopolis (a town in Epirus), has 
written and published a catalogue of the learned Greeks. 

Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works 
in the Turkish language, but Greek character, for the 
Christians of Caramania, who do not speak Romaic, 
but read the character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
the tour of England for the purpose of study (;^a/3£v 
ixa6)]a£(j)s) : but though his name is enumerated, it is 
not stated that he has written any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople: 
many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, 
and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of 
Constantinople. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 

Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written 
many works, particularly " A Commentary on Hesiod's 
Sliield of Hercules," and two hundred tales (of what is 
not specified), and has published his correspondence 
with the celebraied George of Trebizond, his contem- 
porary. 

Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of the 
book from whence these notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : 
nis Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is esteemed 
by the modems (I quote the words of Meletius) ixtra 
rbv OovKviiSrjv kuI 'E£vo(pC}VTa api^-os ilXXrjvwv. I 
add further, on the authority of a well-informed 
Greek, that he was so famous amongst his countrymen, 
that they were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and 
Xenophon were wanting, he was capable of repairing 
the loss. 

Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, professor 
of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member of 
that academy and those of Stockholm and Upsal. 
He has published, at Venice, an account of some 
marine animal, and a treatise on the properties of 
iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics 



1 It is to be observed that the names given are not in chro- 
nological ordei , but consist of some selected at a venture from 
fcmungst those who flourished from the taking of Constanti- 
nople to the time of Meletius, 
J8 



He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on 
which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. 
See the dissertation which he published in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantino has pubUshed a four-longued 
lexicon. 

George Ventote ; a lexicon in French, Italian, aihJ 
Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and 
Romaic, French, etc., besides grammars, in every 
modern language, except English. 

Amongst the hving authors the following are most 
celebrated : ' — 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric 
in Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in Vi- 
enna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- 
lator of Fontenelle's "■ Plurality of Worlds " (a favourite 
work amongst the Greeks), is stated to be a teacher of 
the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris, in both of 
which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhet- 
oric. 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written "e/s 
TO jxtcoSdpBapov,'''' on logic and physics. 

John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated into 
French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be ac 
excellent Hellenist and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, d. geo 
graphical work : he has also translated several ItalioB 
authors, and printed his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has beeii already 
given. 



GREEK WAR SONG.^ 

1. 

AEY TE -aihe? twv 'EAX^vwv, 

6 Kaipbs Trig Sb^rjs >)X9£V. 
As (pavZjxcv a^iot Iksivwv 

trov nds 6w(yav rfjv ap^rjv- 
Af TraT>ic(i)[jiev avhpdwg 

Tov t;vybv r^j rvpavviSoS' 
tlKSiK^crwjxev TTarpiSog 

Ktids ovsiSos ald'X^pov. 

Ta oir\a us \d6u>nev' 

nalSss ''E\\>^v(l)V, aywixtv. 

HoTajxcSbv i)^Qpu>v rb alpLU 
as Tpi^i] 11770 TToSiov. 



()Oev {laQt TU)v EAXt^j/wv 

kSkkuXu avSpeiwfjiiva ; 
Ylvevfiara iaKopTricrjjiiva, 

riipa XdBcTS ttvotjv ; 
'S Triv (pii)vfiv rijs cra\-iyy6s fiov 

cvva^9i}T£ oka buov. 
Tr]v i-rdXo<pov ^>]T£7t£, 

Kal VLKaT£ TTpb TzavTov. 

Ta S;rAa us \d6(j}{i£v, etc. 



1 These names are not taken from any publication. 

2 A translation of this song will be found at pa^je Jr>« 



l«b 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



3. 



"ZirdpTa, Sra'pra, rt KOinaaai 

v-rrvov hjdapyov, Padvv ; 
^VTTVTjcTov, Kpd^e AOnvas, 

avfi[ia^ov TravTorEivtjv. 
tlvBviJirjaou Ae(j}vi5ov 

r}pwog Tou '^aKOVs-ov, 
TOO avSpos iizaiveixivov, 

(poSepov Kal rponepov. 

Td dnXa ug \d6(,)ix£v, etc 

4. 

6 Tzov th rag QeppLOirvXas 

noXzpLOV avrbg Kporst^ 
KOI Tovg Uipaag acpavi^ei 

Koi avTuiv KuraKpareT. 
Mf rpiaKomovg avSpag, 

tig TO Kivrpov ■!r^o)(^b}ps2, 
Koi, &g Xfcjv -S-u/iw^fj/of, 

elg rb aipd twv ^ovrtX. 

Td OTrXa aj XaSufiev, etc. 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Pofj-(70>, AyyXof, Kal TdWog Kdpvovrtg rnv Tr£pi/]yi]aiv 
Tijg 'EWdSog, Kal (i\i-ovTtg rnv aQ\iav r^v Kard- 
CTuaiv, eipwrrjcav Karap^dg 'iva TpatKOv (piXeWrjva 
^id vd [idOovv Tr]V ahtav, fitr avTov 'iva itrjTpOTioXiTTjv, 
lira 'iva PXd^fnrsrjv, 'i~eiTa eva TrpaypiaTavTriv Kal iva 
irpoeaToiTa. 

EtTTf nag, w cpiXiWriva, ttw? (piptig rr/v <TK\a6iav 
•cat rfiv ai:apriy6pr]Tov tSv TovpXwv Tvpavviav, 
TiSg Ta7g ^vXalg Kal vSpiajxovg koi ciirjpoSecriiiav 
Tzaihiov, -apBevbiv, yxivaiKZv avr'/Kovcrov (pOopelav. 
Aev rJX9^ eaelg a-ndyovoi Ikuvuv t(ov LXX^vwv 
tSv iXevOepwv Kal co^Sv Kal rSv (piXoTrarpiSwv, 
Kal TTUJ? tKc7voi d~ldv7](TKov yid rfjv iXevQepiav 
Kal Tixipa eaelg vnOKeiaOe eig riroiav rvpavviav, 
Kal TToTov yivog w? icrelg IcrdOr) ^wTKjpLivov 
elg rrjv aocpiav, 5vvauiv, eig k^ 'oXa ^aKov<T[iivov 
liSg vvv iKaraaT^aars rfjv (^wriv^v FiXXdSa. 
Pa6d ! d»? 'iva axiXsdpov, coj gkotzlvt^v XapnrdSav 
OixiXei, (piXrart TpaiKe, chi nag rriv alrlav, 
pf) KpvT^rrjg TiTroreg rjpSiv, Xdt ttjv dvopiav. 

6 ^lAE'AAHNOS. 

'Fwcrff-ayyXo-ya'XXoi, EXXctf, Kal o^i aXXoi, 

^Tov, ug Xire, itoaov pL^yaXtj. 

vvv h( viOXta, Kal dva^ia 

a<p ov ap^Laev in dpiaBia. 

Ba iljXTTopovcrav vd rrjv ^virv^fft] 

rovT £i5 '■^ X^'pov rriv bSTjyovffi. 

aiTTi arevd^ei, rd TfKva Kpd^ti, 

<rr3 vd izpoKdiTTOvv 'oXa irpoardi^eiy 

Kal TOT iXTti^Ei on KcpM^ei 

ibpelv iKtivo Txou rnv (pXoyi^ci. 

Md Sorts ToXp^aei vd tijv ^VTTvrjaij 

«dyti ctov a6rjv %i«."pts Tiva Kpiaiv. 

'lti« above is the commencement of a long dramatic 
4«inrc on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry ; il 
•fc contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curious 
j»a a -tpecimen of their rhyme ; I have the whole in MS. 



but this extract will be found sufficient. The Romaia 
in this composition is so easy as to render a version aj 
insult to a scholar ; but those who do not understand 
the original will excuse the following bad translation of 
what is in itself indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman, making the 
tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of 
the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek patriot, to 
learn the cause ; afterwards an Archbishop, then a 
Vlackbey,' a Merchant, and Cogia Bachi or Primate. 

Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 

Why bear ye the yoke of the Oltoman lord 1 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd. 

The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid! 

The descendants of Hejlas's race are not ye I 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free. 

Thus sprung from the Wood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast. 

Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost ! 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour. 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power ! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase. 

Oh shameful dishonour ! the darkness of Greece 7 

Then tell us, beloved Acha?an ! reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Philellenist I have not translated, as 
it is no better than the question of the travelling trium- 
virate ; and the above will sufficiently show with what 
kind of composition the Greeks are now satisfied. I 
trust I have not much injured the original in the few 
Unes given as faithfully, and as near the " Oh, Miss 
Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey!" measure of the 
Romaic, as I could make them. Almost all their pieces, 
above a song, which aspire to the name of poetry, con- 
tain exactly the quantity of feet of 
" A captain bold of Halifax who lived in country quarters," 

which is, in fact, the present heroic couplet of the Ro- 
maic. 



SCENE FROM 'O KA<I>EN62. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI BY 
SPIRIDON VLANTI. 

SKHNH KF'. 

IIAATZIAA dg tyjv rropTav tov )(^aviov, Kal ol aviaBzv* 

IIAA. SI Qd\ drrb rb irapadvpi [xov {(pdvj) vd aKovtrw 
r/?v (puyvfjv tov dvSpSg pov 'uv avTog dvai f^w, e(jiO&ca ai 
Kaipbv vd TOV ^EVTpo-Ldao). [EvyaivEi 'ivag SovXog d-t 
TO ipyacTTi^pi'^ llaXiKdpi, trig pov, ci -apaKaXio. rroibs 
tlvai iKU tig iKtivovg Tovg dvTaStg ; 

AOYA. Tpe7g ^p>j(Tipoi avSpcg. Kvag b KVp Euyf- 
VLog, b aXXog b Kvp yidpiriog JstaTroXiTavogf Kal f Tpirog 
b Kvp K6vTt AiavSpog ApSivTrjg. 

IIAA. Avdptaa tig avTovg Stv tivat o 'tfXnul- wg, at. 
'6p(j)g 5fv aXXa^ev ovopa. 

AEA. Nd l,ri f) KaXi) Tv^rj tov Kvp Kvytviov. 
vwvTa?.] 

OAOI. Nd ^f;, vd t^rj. 

IIAA. AiToj thai b avSpag pov ;\;aj/(C aXXo 
avdpojTtt, Kape /tou ttjv X"P^^^ "^ /^^ <7vyT,:o(ptv(Tp- 



[Ui 



KaXf 

'•VUV(a 



1 Vlackbe> Prince of Wallaf'hia 



CHILDE HA^ROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



99 



ch avTovg Tovs acpevrdoes, b-ov ^i\u) va. rovg ~ai^(i) [liav. 
[Ufbs TOP SovXov.] 

AOY. Opi(Tix6s eras' {cvvriBiajxivov d(p(piKiov riov 6ov- 
XevtZv.) [Tfjv liJLTzd^£i dirb ro ipyaGTijpi tov tzul- 
yviSiov.^ 

riA. KapSid, Kap6id, Kdpere KaX))v naphidv, hiv ilvai 
'iiTOTCi. [Upos Tf\V BLT76piav.'\ 

BIT. Eyw alaOdvojxai ttw? dirzQaivM. [Hvvip^ETUL 
di ~bv iavTov rrjs.^ 

[Atto rd irapdQvpa, riov dirdhtjiv ^atvovrat d\oi, 
h-ov ariKoviovTai dirb to rpaiti^i (7vy')(i(TiJ.£voif Sid 
TOV ^acpvKjjibv TOV A.(.dvhpov (^XiiruiVTas rfiv 
nXar^t^a, Koi hiarX airbs Sd^vsi ttwj ^iXei vd 
Triv (povtvari.l 

Etr. 6;^£, cTaOrjre. 

MAP. Mfjv Kaixvert... 

AEA. l]?/>cci), (pvyt d::' J^w. 

IIAA. BoriQua, (SoijQeia [^tfevyec dnb t^]v cKaXav, b 
AiavSpogS-iXei vd Trjv aKoXovO^aj] /xl rb (TTtaoOi, Kal b Euy. 
TOV Baara.] 

[TPA. Ml ha ridTO /«£ (payc eig piiav iztri^ha nrjS^ 
d-b TO -napaOvpi, Kal (pevyei dg Tbv Kacpevi.] 

[nAA. 'EvyaivEi dirb to ipyaaTijpi tov itaiyvi5iou 
Tpi')(iiiVTag, Kal (pevyei slg t3 %av(.] 

[EYF. M( apfiaTa elg rb ^ipt -npbg SiacpivTtvaiv t^j 
IlXaT^iSag, ivavTiov tov Aedv6pov, b-ou rrjv KaraTpi- 

[MAP. "Evyaivei Kal avTog aiyd aiyd dirb rb epya- 
arijpi, Kal (pzvyci Xfywvraj* Rumores fuge.] \?ovix6ptg 
<pzZy£..'\ ' 

[0[ ^ovkoi (1773 Tb ipyatjrfjpL d~tpvovv dg to ^dvi, 
Kal kXciovv Tr)v irdpTav.] 

[BIT. M.iv£i dg tov Kai^zvi ^orjOi-Jixivr] dirb tov 
?iS6\(pov.] 

AEA. A6a£T£ t6~ov' -S-Au vd eixBo) vd ejxBo) £ig 
Ikuvo to X'^^'-' [-"^^^ ^° uiraQl dg to X^P'- ^^o.'V'iov tov 
Eiiy£i'(ou.] 

EXr. 6;^J, fif) yivoiTO -oTt' tlaai 'ivag (TK\r]poKdp?)og 
tvavTLov Tijg yvvaiKog cov, Kal iyd) &iXu ttjv 6ia(p£VT£vcu) 
dg elg Tb vaTcpov aJjia. 

AEA. Soy Kip.vij) opKov zrjg ^eXei to pLCTavoiuxTrig, 
[KvvTjyai tov "Evyiviov pi to trrraS/.] 

EYF. All* o-f (poSovpai. [KaTarpixei Tbv AiavSpo?; 
Kal TOV Pid^Ei vd uvpBfj o-iaij) Tocrov, b-ov evpidKwvTag 
dvoiKTuv TO uTijiTL TTJg ;)^op£i5rp£ajj IjiSaivti dg avrb, Kal 

fftOVETai.] 

TRANSLATION. 

Platzida, from the door of the Hotel, and the Others. 

Pla. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I 
heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have arrived 
in time to make him ashamed. [A servant enters from 
tlie Shop.\ Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those cham- 
bers? 

Scrv. Three Gentlemen : one Signor Eugenio ; the 
other Signor Martio, the Neapolitan; and the third, 
my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

Pla. Flaminio is not amongst these, unless he has 
rhangod his name. 

leander. [IVithin, drinldng.} Long live the good 
fortune of Sisnor Eugenio. 



' Adyoff XariviKbg, b-ov &iX£i vd ehfi' ^Euye ralj 
rvyxi<T£s. 



[The -whole company. '\ Long live, etc. (Literally, 
Na ^^, vd ^7j, May he live.) 

Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [To tn» 
iServ.] Priy good man, do me the favour to acconipanj 
me above to those gentlemen : I have some business. 

Serv. At your commands. [Aside.\ The old office 
of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gaming-house. '\ 

Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the stage.] 
Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him 
as if fainting.] 

[From the windows above all within are seen rising 
from the table in confusion: Leander starts at 
the sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures 
to threaten her life.] 

Eugenio. No, stop 

Ilartio. Don't attempt 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 

Pla. Help ! Help ! [Flies down the stairs : Leander 
attempting to follow with his sword, Eugenio hinders 
him.] 

[Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony 
from the window, and runs into the Coffee-house. 

[Platzida runs out of the Gaming-house, and takes 
shelter in the Hotel.] 

[Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-house, and 
goes off exclaiming, "Rumores fuge." The Servants 
from the Gaming-house enter the Hotel, and shut the 
door.] 

[Victoria remains in the Coffee-house assisted by 
Ridolpho. ] 

[Leander, siuorc? inhand, opposite Eugenio, exclaims,] 
Give way — I will enter that hotel. 

Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- 
drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop 
of my blood. 

Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Men- 
acing with his sword.] 

Eugenio. 1 fear you not. [He attacks Leander, and 
makes him give back so much that, finding the door of 
the dancing girVs house open, Leander escapes through, 
and so finishes. y 



AiA'Aoroi oJkiakoi. familiar dialogues. 

Am vd^r]T)](xi]g 'iva irpaypa. To ask for any thing. 

Hag TrapaKaXio, Soari p£ uv I pray you, give me if you 

bpi^£T£. please. 

<l>ip£ri p£. Bring me. 

Aav£ia£Ti ix£. Lend me. 

Yir]yaiv£T£ vd ^T]Tijc£T£. Go to seek. 

' Sa>v£r«t — "finishes" — awkwardly enough, but it in 
the literal translation of the Romaic. The original of this 
comedy of Gokloni's I never read, but it does not appear ono 
of his best. "II Bugiardo" is one of the most lively; but J 
do not think it has been translated into Romaic : it is much 
more amusing than our own "Liar," by Foote. The char- 
acter of Lelio is better drawn than Young Wilding. Go, 
doni's comedies amount to fifty ; some perhaps the best ih 
Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one of the best 
specimens of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has observed, 
"more dramatic than any of his plays." The above scena 
was selected as containing some of the most familiar Romaic 
idioms, not for any wit which it displays, since there is more 
done than said, the greater part consisting of stage direction* 
The original is one of the few comedies by Goldoni wliioS i» 
without the buffoonery of the speaking Harleouln. 





too BYRON'S WORKS. 


Tujpa €v6vs. Now directly. 


All/ ^Aw Xzi^u va tov Tb I wiU not fail to tell him 


C uKpiSf, f/ov Kvpu, KdjiCTt JNIy dear Sir, do me this 


£2-0). of it. 


fit avr))v rfiv ^dfjiv. favour. 


lipoGKvvnpaTd pov zlg Tnv My compliments to her 


Eyii (tSs -aoaKaXu). I entreat you. 


dpxovTiGGav. ladyship. 


Eyi o-uj i^opKi^i.). I conjure you. 


YinyaivzTE ipTTpoGdu Kal Gag Go before and I will follow 


E)u crili TO ^ti-a 6ta ^dpiv. I ask it of you as a favour. 


aKoXovOio. you. 


Y-ox^pidjaeri p.e els roaov. Oblige me so much. 


H^cipoj KaXdro XP^oi pov. I well loiow my duty. 




U^zvpu) TO eJvai pov. I know my situation. 


Xoyia ipw-iKa, rj ayaTrm- Affectionate expressions. 


Ml Kapverz vd ivTpeiTwpai You confound me with so 


Zuirj nov. My life. 


pe Ta7g Tocaig (piXofpo- much civility. 


kKpt6^ ]xov ^vxV' ^ly dear soul. 


avvaig Gag. 


AyaiTTiTe /lov, aKpi6i uov. My dear. 


QeXzTZ Xoi-bv vd Kapu} piav Would you have me then 


KapSiT^a fiov. My heart. 


dxpeioTrjra ; be guilty of an inciviUty? 


A.yd-Ti jxov. My love. 


XTTdyo) ip-poGdd Sid vd Gag I go before to obey you. 




h~aK0VG(i). 


Aia va evxapiGT/jajis, va To thank, pay compliments, 


Aid vdKaptt) Trjv irpoGTay^v To comply with your com 


Kdpr]g Trepi-oitjaes, Kai and testify regard. 


cag. mand. 


<pLXiKa7i 6c^i(j)cr£s. 


All/ dyaizih Tocaig -zpi-ol- I do not like so much cer 


E>w aas Evxapiard. I thank you. 


rjczg. em.ony. 
All- zlpai TzXzMg ■trzpi- I am not at all ceremoni' 


2aj yvw/st^o) ;\;ap£i'. I return you thanks. 


yin; ilnai h-dxp^og Kara I am much obliged to you. 


TTOlJJTlKOg. ous. 


Av-b zlvai TO KaXrjTzpov. This is better. 


Eyw -S-fAw rb Kdpzi prrd I will do it with pleasure. 


ToGov TO KaXvTzpov. So much the better. 


Xapug. 
Ml b\nv jiov rhv Kapoiav. With all my heart. 


E;!^;£r£ Xdyov, zx^tz S'lKaiov, You are in the right. 




Mf Ka\/iv pov Kaphiav. Most cordially. 


Aid vd ^z6aiuiGr]g, vd dp' To affirm, deny, consen , 


"Sus iipai ij-6xp^og. I am obliged to you. 


vrjOfjg, vd cvyKaTavzvcrjg, etc. 


YApai bXog iCucSg Gag. I am wholly yours. 


ktX. 


FJpai 5ov\6g cag. I am your servanU 


Enai dXrjdivbv, zivai dXr]- It is true, it is very true. 

OiCTarov. 


Ta-civo-arog Sov'kog. Your most humble servant. 


EicrcKard TroXXd tiysviKdg. You are too obliging. 


Aid vd cag eittw tvv dXr}- To tell you the truth. 


rioXXa -eipd^cGds. You take too much trouble. 


Oziav. 


To £;^w Std x^P°-^ Z'O" ^^ I ^^'^^ ^ pleasure in serv- 


OvTwg, zT^r; zlvai. Really, it is so. 


uag 6ov\eii(T(j}. ing j'ou. 


no?o J dp(piGdXXzi ; \Tho doubts it ? 


Ehre chyeviKog kuI tvtrpoc- You are obhging and kind. 


Alv zhai TTOGuJg dp^iSoXia. There is no doubt. 


vyopog. 


To TTiGTziio}, oiv TO TTic- I beUevc it, I do not be- 


LvTo eJvai -rpi-ov. That is right. 


Tzvui. heve it. 


Tt SiXere ; W hat is your pleasure ? 


Aiyu) TO vai. I say yes. 


T£ opi^ETs ; What are your commands? 


Af'ytj rb o;^£. I say no. 
Ba'XXw GTixvpa 'on zlvai. I wager ii is. 


Yag TzapaKaXd va pi pz- I beg you v\all treat me 


rax^ipi-^tcdz IXzvQzpa. freely. 


BaXXumrixr/pa oridev zlvai I wager it is not so. 


Xwptf -zpi-oir^Gzg. Without ceremony. 


ZT^r;. 


Sa? aya-S) i^ hXrjg pov Kap- I love you with all my 


Hat, pd Tjjv -icTiv pov Yes, by my faith. 


Stag. heart. 


Ej'j TTjv GvvziSrjGiv pov. In conscience. 


Kat fXw opotwg. And I the same. 


M(Z Triv (,(:)fiv pov. By my life. 


TcpijazTi ps ps Ta7g -po- Honour me with your 


Nai, Gag dpvxioj. Yes, I swear it to you. 


araya'ig cag. commands. 


Hag dpvvo) uicdv TipTjpivog I swear to you as an hon- 


Extre rl-orcg vd pt -rpo- Have you any commands 


dpQpw-nog. est man. 


ard^zTZ ; for me ? 


Sa? SpvviJ i-dvu) zlg Trjv I swear to you on my hon- 


npoard^zTE rbv SovXov Gag. Command your servant. 


Tiptjv pov. our. 


IlpoGpivio Tag -npoGaydg I wait your commands. 


HicTzvczTi pt. BeUeve me. 


Gag. 


B.p-opGi vd cag to PzSauo- I can assure you of it. 


Ml KdpvzTZ pzydX-qv Tipriv. You do me great honour. 


GO}. 


^ddvovv]! TzzpiTzoirjGzg, adg Not so much ceremony, I 


HOzXa ^aXj] crlxripa o, ti I w^ould lay what bet you 

^iXzre 6id tovtq. please on this. 


TTaoaKaXS. beg. 


lipoGKvvfiGers eK //.f/)ouf Present my respects to the 


M/j Tvxrt ical rttt(7-£j^£j&o You jest by chance ? 


Hou TOP apxovra, n rbv gendeman, or his lord- 


(xopaTzvzTs) ; 


Kvpiov. ship. 


OpiXelrz pe rd bXa cag ; Do j'ou speak serously ? 


hzSaiiGZTE TOP rrwg tov Assure him of my remem- 


Eyw cag bpiXGi pe Td SX ' I speak seriously to von. 


ivQvuovpai. brance. 


pov, Kal adg X/yw n)v and tell you th«> Unth. 


Bc^aiuJ(7£r/ tov jtSj t^p Assure him of my fricnd- 


dX^Qziav. 


iynirm. ship. 


Eyu cag rb ^zSanivu. I assure you Oi ii 





CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



101 



To lirpoiprjrsvazrc. 
To t-irsv^er£. 

IJpiTTCi vti Gas ~i^T£vau), 
Avrb 6h' eivai aSvvuTOv. 
To \oi-bv us Eivai lie koX^v 

&pav. 
KaXd, Ka\a. 
Sfv eivai dXtjOivdv. 
Eivai \pev5iS' 
Asv Eivai ri-oTEs a~b ahrd. 
Eivai cva xpevcos, jJiia 

UndTT}. 

Eyw CLCTei^oyLOvv {l^opd- 

T£va). 
Eyw TO eJ-aSia va yeXdaiD. 
T?) a\r]9eia. 
Mf apiazi Kara ttoWu. 
J^VYnaravEVd) els tovto. 
AiSu) Tfjv ipr}(l)6v ptov. 
Atv avTiaTtKopiai els tovto. 
'E.lpai cvp(p(i}vos, i< cvp.- 

(pdvov. 
Eyu) 6ev 6i\(ji. 
Eyw ivavTiiLvopai els tovto. 

dia va (Tvp6ov\ev9^s, va. 

aTO^nadfiS^ J] va azocpa' 

Claris. 
Ti Tvpiizei va Kapwp.ev ; 
T/ 3-d Kdnu>p.ev ; 
Tt n\ avpiSov\£\ieTe va Ka- 

Ouolov Tp6-ov 3i\opev peTa- 

X^piadfi ripeis ,* 
"Af Kdpdipev eT^Tj. 

E7vai Ka\fiTepov iyw vd 

Sra9/7~£ oXiyov. 

Aiv ridsXev elvai KaXnTepov 

fcyw ayaTTOvaa KaXrjrepa. 
QiXsTE Kdpei KuX)]Tepa uv — 
Aipijcreri pe. 
Av ^povv els Tov TOnOV eras, 

f'yw 

Eivai TO ISiov, 



You have guessed it. 
You have hit upon it. 
I believe you, 
I must believe you. 
This is not impossible. 
Then it is very well. 

Well, weU. 
It is not true. 
It is false. 

There is nothing of this. 
It is a falsehood, an impos- 
ture. 
I was in joke. 

I said it to laugh. 

Indeed. 

It pleases me much. 

I agree with you. 

I give my assent. 

I do not oppose this. 

I agree. 

I vdll not. 

I object to this. 

To consult, consider, or re- 
solve. 

What ought we to do ? 
What shall we do ? 
What do you advise me to 

do? 
What part shall we take ? 

Let us do this. 

It is better that I 

Wail a httle. 

Would it not be better 

that ? 

I wish it were better. 

You mil do better if 

Let me go. 

If I were in your place, 

I 

It is the same. 



The reader by the specimens below W7u be enabled to 
compare the modem with the ancient tongue. 

PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHN'S 
GOSPEL. 

Nfor. AvOevriKov. 

Ke^dX. a. Ke<pdX. d. 

1. Els rfiv apx^iv Jjtov h I. fiN ap^rj i^v b X6yos, 
XSyoi' Kal h Xoyos y^TOV perd Kai S Xdyos ^v irpbs tov 
Oeov' Kai Qebs tjtov b Xoyos. Qebv, Kal Qebs ijv b Xdyos. 

2. tlTcvTos JJTov els riiv 2. Ovtos tjv iv apyrj 
oLO-^riTf H^zTa Qeov. izpbs tov Qeov. 



3. 6Xa [ra TTpdypara^ Sid 
pi(jov TOV [XSyov] iyiVT]<7av, 
Kai )(_(')pis ahrbv 6ev eyive 
Kaviva eilti eyive. 

4. Els avTov ^Tov ^w^j* 

Kai h ^(j)fl rJTOV TO <pSs TWV 

avdpcj-uiv. 

5. Kai TO 0d)j els Tr:v 
cKOTciav (peyyei, Ka\ y cko- 
Tzia Sh Tb KaTaXaBs. 

6. Eyivev evas avOpwiros 
axecTaXpevos a-b tov Qebv, 
rb ovopd TOV Icodwys. 



3. HdvTa cl avTov iyf- 
vero' Kal ;\;w/)ts avrov h/iv- 
ero ovoi ev, o yiyovev. 

4. Ev avT^ ^w^ rjv, Kal 
X} t,ii>r} ^v rb (pS)s tGjv dvQpiO' 

-0)1/. 

5. Kal rb (pios iv rfj gko- 
Tiq (palvei, kol t] cKoiiia airi 
ov KariXaCev. 

6. Eyivero civdpoiTTOs a.-- 
earaXpevos itapd Qeov, Svc 
pa avT(p iu)dvvT]S. 



THE IXSCRIPTIOXS AT ORCHOJUENUS, FROM 
aiELETIUS. 

6PX0MEN6S, kolvSs ILKpiTOv, irdXis -ore TsXavaiui- 
rdrr] Kal la^^^vpwTdrT], vpoTtpov KaXovpivrj BoiwTiKal 
Adrjvai, els rliv bTzoiav yrov b Naof twv Xapiriav, els 
rbv birolov InX^pwvov rtX)] oi Q7j6a7oi, ovrivos rb 'ihacpos 
avecKdfpQr} izort vzb tSv Ka-aXdyKuiv. E-avnyipii^ov 
els avTfjv rfiv TrdXiv tu Xapir/icjia, tov b~oiov dywvos 
Evpov iviypacpds h aryjXais evSov tou KTicQevros vaov £-' 
ovopaTi rrjs QeoTOKOv, v~b rod -pcoToa'aOapiov AiovTos, 
em tHiv 6aciXio}v BacriXdov, Aiovros, Kal KwvaravrivoVf 
f)^o'V(Tas ovTws' ev pev rij pi$ Koivios. 

" O'lSe tv'iKwv TOV dyCiva tCjv XapiTrjalwv, 

71aX-iGT)jS' 
Miivis A-oXXijjviov Avtio)^€vs d~b Maidv^pov. 

Kijpv^. 
ZwiXoj ZmXov Ildcpios- 

Ta^wSoS' 
NovpT]vios T^ovp.tjviov Adr}va7os. 

JloiijTfis e~S)v. 
^Apnvias AvpoKXeovs Qf}6a7os. 

AvXrjrrjs. 
AiToXXoSoTos At7oXXo66tov Kp^S' 

AvXcjcos. 
VoSiTTTTOS To5i--ov Apyrjos. 

KiOapiarrjS' 
^avtas A-oXXoSoTov tov <^aviov AloXcvs a-b Kvprji- 

Kidapipcos. 
ArjprJTpios HappeviaKov KaXy^^rjcovios- 

TpaycoSos. 
l--0KpdTr)S kpicTophovs Vdhos. 

K(j}p(t)S6s' 
KaXXtarpaTDS E^aKiarov 67]6a7oS' 

TloiTjT^jS "EaTrpMr. 
Aprjvlas AjjpoKXiovs 6>/()a7cj. 

Y7T0KpiT)lS. 

A(x)p6deos AwpoOiov TapavrivCS' 

YloirjTrjs TpayiuhiZv. 
2o0o(fA^f Y.o(PokXeovs ^drjvaioS' 

Y~0K01T}JS. 

KaSipij^os Q£o6u>pov Q}]6a7os. 
HoiTjrris K(iopw6iai'- 
AXe^avSpos AplcTWvos A9r}va7os. 

Y-OKpiT^S' 

AttuXos AttuXov Ad>]va7os. 



t05 



BYRON'S WORKS 



07Se (viK(j}v rbv vn]ir]rov ayCJva ruiv o^tocwwi'. 

IlaT^uj airXr/tr-rtS. 
AtoK^Tis KaWifi/iSov Q)]6a7os. 

Tla76ag }iy€[i6vas- 
Sr^oarTioj Y-vviKov Q)i6a7os. 

AioK\tii KaWinfjSov e>?6'cToi. 

Av^pas {^yrpovag. 
Po'c^jr-os VoSi-Tzoi^ Apyuo<;. 

Tpay([)S6i. 
[--oKpdrtjg Api(TTOf.iivovs TdSiog. 

KaWicTTparo? E^aKearov Qi]6a7og. 
T« iziviKia. 

K(i}ixu)^i(j}v Iloir]Tr}i. 
kXi^avSpog Apiarliovos A0?/vaIoj. 

Ev 6i TTJ iTtpq. c(jopiK(og. 
MvGofvw ap^ovTog aywvoQcTiovTog rb 
XapireiTiov, tvnpidarw -dv-uiv o1 tvX Sc iviKixxrav ra 
Xapirci-ia. 

l.a'X-iyKrds. 
^iXivos •I'lXu'w AOdveiog. 

Kdpov^. 
E?/;w5aj "ZwKpdrios QtiBeios. 

Hocirdg. 

yil'jff-Uip jM)7(7TOpof i}(i3KaitVS. 

I'aip£v66g. 
Kpdruv KXtwi'o? QeiBtiog. 

AvXcLTdg. 
nipiycvslg B.paK\Ei5ao Kov^iKrjvSg. 

Av\aEv56g. 
Aa^?;i'£rof TXavKU) Apyiog. 

KiOapiffTdg. 
TdjJiaTpog A/iaXww AloXevg a-b ^iovpivag. 

Tpaya£v56g. 
kcK\a-i6bb)pog HovQzdo Tapavnvog. 

Kuijiaiv^og. 
l^iKdirrpaTog '^cXoGrpdrui QelStiog. 
Ta e-iviKtia Kw/xaoi^df. 
Ei'ap;;^o? Hpoi5(5rw Kopwvzig.''^ 

^v a'XX{{) Xt0£}). 

" ^Ivpij^og Tlo\vKpdTovg lapwvvyiog Sioyiruivog avhpzcci 

^opayeiaavTcg viKaaavTtg viovvcov aviOijKuv Tipwvog ap- 

•)^jVTog avXiovrog K\eog aSovrog aXKiaOiviog.^^ 

Ev hipw \ido^. 

*'$^vvdp)(^b} ap^ovTog, fitivog &£iXov9io), ap)(^i wg Eu- 

SuAi dp^sSdiJiU} <po}K£7a og d-ihuiKa dizb rag covy- 

Ypa<bu) -r-iba rwv ■uoXepdp'^^itJv, kti ri2v Karo-Taoyv, dveXd- 
fievog rag <70vyypa(pu)g rag Kipivag ~ap eixppova, ki) (pihlav 

KYj iTa(nK'\t7v Ki] Tijxdpeilov (pwKeiag, kt} iapio- 

Tf}^e7v XvcriSdfKji), kt) hlovvdov Ka<pi(Tohij)iii ')rnpwvz7a kut 
TO \j.'d(pic[ia rw ^a/zu. 



Mfi^^r\>tn 



Jvvrfp^^w apyovTog, ixeivbg aXaX>:oju£vtco F dpvuiv, -o\v- 
K\£iog rapiag drriSoxz tvSuXv ap^eSdfiU) <p(>)KE77 arrb rag 
wovyyf,3<pi5 rb KaraXv-ov kut rb xpdcpKTua tw Suub)^ avt- 
y.duevog Tag crovyyp^Y^t rag Kiittvag it dp atixpiXov, kti 



evcppova (puKfug. Krj -dp Siwvvcriov Ka(pi<ToS(opoi ;;^>;pa)i f a, 
K)) XvaiSaixov SaiioriXiog T:i6a tS>v TToXtfidp^uyVf kt) tCji 
KaTC-rdu)v. 

" ApxovTog ev tpxoi^tvb &vvdp)(^u), ptevbg AXaXKopeviu) 
iv 6i F iXarlr] Mcvoirao ^Ap^cXdo) jxcivbg -pdrw. bjioX- 
oyd EtjfiwXi; F iXarir], o Kri tTj rdXt f/5;i^o/i£V(wv. ETrci6ii 
KeKOjilari] EvBioXog rap rrjg -rroXiog to 6dvziov arrav Kai 
Tag hpLoXoyiag Tctg TtBiaag d-wdp^o) dp^ovTog, [lEivbg 
SeiXovOio), Kt] ovT 6(f)EiXiTr} avTU) ETi ovQlv Tidp Tav -KoXlVj 
dXX" a-E-^i -rrdvra ZEp\ -Kavrbg, Kn aTToSESoavdL Trj 1:6X1 r3 
£')(^ovTEg Tag hjxoXoyiag, eI ^Iv ttotI hE^ofiivov ^pSvov 
'Ev6(j}Xv Eni vopiag F eti drTETTapa PovEcri ffovv 'iinrvg 6id 
KaTirjg Ft kuti vpoSdrvg covv ^^yvg ^EiXirjg dp^} rw xpovoi 
h h'lavTog h pErd Ovvap^ov dp-^ovTa ipxopEviog duoypa- 
(piffOij 6£ Eii/8wXoi' Kar iviavTov cKacTov rap Tbv Tapiav 
Kr\ Tov vopwv av tqte Kavp-ara twv -irpoSdTWVf kti tCHv 
rjyZv, Kri rStV jSovuiv, Kri rwv t-irav, Krj Kdriva dc7apaiu)V 
yiKT} TO rXsTflof jiEi dTToypd(f>E(jo (LSs irXiova Tutv yEypap.- 

jxevwv iv Tjj (T0Dy;^wp£i(7t f} SeKaTig t} to ivvoixiov 

Ei'/JdtXov d(}>EtXEt Xig tS)v tp^opsvliov dpyovpiu) 

TETTopaKovTa KvBwXv Kad^ EKacjTOV iviavrbv, 

Ki] t6kov (pEpirb) Spaxfidg Tag fivag (Kaarag Kara 

[iE7va Tcv Ki] 'ipL-paKTog eVto) Tbv ep^opiviov 

Kal Ta f^jyf." 

El' dXXoig XiOoig. 
"AvoSuipa avvcpopov ;;^a(p£" IN" OKYES. "KaXXiiriTCv 
dpicpdpixog, Kal dXXai.''^ Ev ov6ipig. e-iypa^f] liov TovoVy 
rj TTVEvpa, a 6e 7/juas v-oypd^popLEv, o'l -rraXaiol TrpocEyoar- 
(f)0v. Kal Ta f^?jg. 



The following is the prospectus of a translation of 
Anacharsis into Romaic, bj' my Romaic master, Mar- 
marotouri, who wished to pubhsh it in England. 

eIaHSIS TYnorPA'I>IKH. 
Upbg Toiig h (piXoyEVE7g Kal ^iXiXXrjvag. 

OSOI Etg pi6Xta TavTo^a-nd ivTpv<p(ii)<nv, rj^Eipovv 
-6(rov uvai rb i^p/fcri/ioi' Trjg IdTopiag, Oi' avTtjg yap 
i^EvpiaKETai T] ttXeov pEpaKpvupivq TraXaio-rjg, Kal &eu}- 
povvrai (og iv Ka-d-rpo^ tjOtj, -pd^Eig Kal SioiKTJcrEig roX- 
Xwv Kal 6ia(p6pu)v iOvZv Kal yEvwv u)v t^v fiv^firiv SiEadxj- 
aro Kal SiacrwcEi X) XuropiKr] ALTjyTjcig Eig aioiva Tbv 
a-avra. 

Mt'a TETOia i-i<jTriiiv Etvai EvaTrdKTTjTog, Kal iv tovtm 
ojcpiXiprj, rj Kp£7TT0'' tiTTEiv dvayKaia' Siarl Xoi-bv v/'^'f 
povoi vd Tiiv voT£povu£9a, ptj ij^EvpovTEg ovTE Tag ap^dg 
t(ov ~poy6y(jiv fxag, TTodzv Tiore Kal -wj Evpidrjaav Etg Tag 
vaTpihag pag, ovte tu ^Orj, Td KaTopOujpara Kal t/)i 
Siot'Kr](TLV Twr ; Aj' ipoorrja-wpiEv Tovg dXXcyEV£7g, i]^£vpovv 
vd pd-g Scoaovv o^i p6vov itjTopiKoig Tiiv ap^hv Kal rfjv 
TrpooSov Tiov -rpoydvwv pag, dXXd Kal TOiiOypd<piKG)g pdg 
Sei^vovv Tag S-icrEig tu)v -aTpiSujv pag, Kal oIoveI ^^ip- 
aywyol yivSpEvoi pi Tovg yEwypacpiKovg tiov irivaKag, pdg 
Xiyovv, i5w E7rai al AOrjvai, iSu) 7/ 'ZvdpTtj, «£? at QrjSac, 
Toaa CTdhia ^ pCXia d-e^^i ri pia i-nap^^a di:b Trjv dX 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



J 03 



Xriv. 'FooTos wKo^ojiricTe rfiv fiiav ttoXiv, ckuvos ttiv aX- 
Xrjv, Kal rX. Upoffiri uv fptaTrjawjxzv avTOvg tovs ixi) 
KWrjvag ^£ipay(j)yoi)S jxag, -odcv iTrapaKiviiQrjtjav va 
i^epevvijaovv ap)(^ag roaov iraXaiag, avuTrcordXwf jxag 
a-oKpivovrai (js avrovs tovs \6yovi. " Ka0a)j 6 (k 
lEKvOias Avd^apais, uv 6£v et:tpi£p)(^iTO to. TraveviPpoavva 
iKuva K.\ipara ttjs fcAX«(5o?, uv 5iV Eixcpopctro to. a^iwixa 
Ta, Tci i'fin Koi tovs vSpiOvs tu)v yXKi'ivwv, i'/dsXe p-Eivr} 
EKvOris Kai TO ovojia Kal to Ttpayixa' o'vTtj) koX o i^^UTspos 
laTpbs, Sv 6£v i/idvOavE tu tov l-voKpaTovs, ^£v iSvvuTO 
. vd -pn-ywprjaT] £is Tr]v TE')(yi]v tov. Av h iv iiinv vofioOsTris 
6ev i^iTai^e tu tov SoXwvof, AvKovpyo^i, Kal Ilirra/coy, 
bsv khvvaTO vd pvB^rjcr] Kal vd KaXiepy/jar] Td ijOrj rwv 
6/Joy£l'c5^• tov Av b P);rwp Sev anrjvdi^CTO Tds cv^paSeias 
Kal TOVS 'X^apiEVTiajxovs tov ArjixoaOivovSj 0£v ivepyovaiv 
lis Tds 4''^ ^ds Twv aKpoa-wv TOV Av b Nios Avd'^ap- 
criS, b Kvpios A66ds BapOoXofialos ^fv dveyivuitTKt //I 
pLtyuXrjv iTTijxovvv Kal crKfi^iv Toiis rXfov iyKpiTovs (7vy- 
ypaipels Tiov EXXjjvwv, l^epevvSJv avTovs KaTd (3d9os £Til 
TpiaKOVTa bvu) ctt], 6£v ijOtXev i^vcpdvr] TOVTrjv tyiv irepl 
EiWijvcov larTopiav tov, rjTis Hcpirjyriais tov Niov Ava- 
^dpasws T^ap' aiiTov izpoawvofidadiT, Kal els bXas Tas 
evpwiraiKds 6ia\£KT0vs p.£T£yXu)TTi(rdr/.^^ Kal iv ivl Xdyo), 
ol vEiOTCpoi, dv dev entpvav Sid bSrjyovs tovs irpoyovovs 
fias, rjQeKav 'laws Tr£pi(p£p(j)VTai piaTaiuis jJ^ixP'' '''^^ ''^''• 
Aiira hiv sivai \6yia fvOovaiaapivov Sid to <pi\oy£V£s 
TpaiKov, tivai 61 (piXaXrjQovs Tepixavov, octtis ifxETufpaae 
Tdv Nfoy Avd^apaiv d-b tov TaWiKov eIs to VEppiaviKov, 
Av Xoivbv Kal ^/i£t? SiXwpEV vd pEOi^uijiEV rjjj yvu)GE(x)s 
TO)v \ap.-!zpCJv KaTopQiopLaTixiv bi:ov EKajxav o'l d-aviiaaTol 

£KEIV0L TrpOTZaTOpES TjUWV, av ETnBvpWpLEV vd fidOwpiEV TfjV 

vpdohov Kal av^rjaiv twv eIs Tas T£')(yas Kal iuiaT^iias Kal 
els KaQs dWo eJSos naQfictwSt ''■v E')(^i))jxEV ■nEpi£pyEiav vd 
yv(j)pi(j(s)p.Ev ttoQev KaTaydjxEda, Kal h-rroiovs ^avp.a(STovs 
Kal [lEydXovs dvSpas, eI kuI -jrpoydvovs ^//wv, ^eC, ivjueTj 
^fi' yv(i)pi^op.£V, eIs Kaipbv bnov ol dWoyEVE^s 5-avixd^ovcriv 
avTovs-, Kal (Lf ■::aT(pas -rravTOiaaovv [laBrjaEWS ci6ovTai, 
us (TVV()pdp(i)pEV dnavTES rrpodvpws eIs tyjv ekSociv tov 
S-nvpatrtov tovtov cvyypdpLpaTOS tov Iseov Ava)(^dpaE(j}S. 
Upcls oiv o\ vTiOyEypappivoi vfXo^tEi/ £KTc\iaEi npo- 
Ovpiojs TTjv p€Td(ppacnv tov BiSXiov p.1 Tr<v kutu to 6vva- 
Tov {]p7v KaXfjv (ppdaiv Tyjs vvv Kad' rjpds bjiiXias, koi 

CkSSvTES TOVTO eIs TVTZnV, -SAo/XEV TO KaWiOTTiffEL [X£ TOVS 

yEu)ypa(l)iKOVS irlvaKas p( d-\ds ToipLaiKds Xi^Ets iyxE^- 
apaypJvovs eIs eSiku p.as ypdpjxaTa, vpoaTiQEVTEs 'd ■, ti 
dXXo 'Xp-nfTinov Kal appoSiov eIs rP)v laTopiav. 

OXov TO avyypappaStXEi yh'Ei eIs Topovs SuSsKa kutu 
filpijaiv tTis \TaXucrjs EK^daeMS' H Tipi) bXov tov avyypdp.- 
(laTOS Eivai (pioplvia SeKai^ij tTjs Bi£vvr;s 6id Tr]v TTpoa- 
BijKrjv Tmi yEO)ypa(piKS)v -KivuKOiv. O (piXoyEvr)S oZv cvv- 
hpojJi)^T^s TTpETTEi vd izXrjpwffT) eIs kuQe Tdpov fiopivi 'iva 
Kal KapavTavia e'ikoch tyjs Biivvris, Kal tovto %upif Kapi- 
uiav TTpohoGiv, oXX' evQvs bizov OeXel tu) izapaSoOi] b TdpLOs 
Tv-ujpivos Kal hEphoS' 

Y!,ppwptvoL Kal EvbaipovES iiaSiwoLTE, EXX>/ro;i' jrat^^j. 
T^f vpETEpas dyd-t]S E^opTrjpfvai., 

ioydvvrjs M.appapOTo{>pr}S' 
AiTprJTptOS BEVlEprjs. 
T.7rvpi()(i)v UpeBetos. 

fcv TpUcWtj), T^ TtpdJTJ} 6KTO)6piOV, 1789. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 

i2 IIATEPA pas b-ou Eiaai eIs tovs ovpavovs- uc 
ayiaadfj to ovopd aov. A? eXQrj fj liaaiXEia voi . As 
yivT] Td SiXr/pd cov, KaOibs eIs Tbv ovpavbv, et^i) Kal sis 
T)]V yrjv. To i//wju£ \).as to KadrjpEpivbv, 66s t^as rb a/jp.- 
epov. Kal avy^uprjai pas Tn XP^^ i"^?> KaOois Kal IjieIs 
(Tvyx^opovpEv TOVS KpEocpEiXhas pas. Kal pfiv pas <p£pi 
Ets TTEipaapbv, dXXd iXEvdEpcoffi ptas 0.7:0 Tbv vovr;p6v. 
Oti £6iKrj aov ElvaL 7) ^aaiXEia 5'i, tj 66va[xis, Kal j] 66^a 
EIS TOVS alQvaS' Aurjv. 

IN GREEK. 

IIATEP ripwvj b iv roij ovpavols) ayiaaBfiTw Tb ovopd 
COV. EXOetw )j ^aaiXEia gov yEvrjdrJTO) to ^£Xr;pd aov, 
ws iv ovpavip, Kal im r^j y^j. Tov dpTov rjpwv tov ekiov- 
aiov 6bs ziplv anpEpov. Kai d^ES Tipilv tu dcpEiXijpuTa rjpZv, 
'os Kai ripEls dip'iEpEV To~is dcpEiXirais vpiwv. Kai p.^ 
EiGcV£yKr]S iipds Eis iTEipacpov, dXXd pvaai rjpids dirb tov 
TTOvtjpov. 6ti gov iGTiv fj ^aGiXt'ia, Kai rt Svvapis, Kal ri 
66^a, eIs tovs aluJvas. 



CANTO III. 



Note 1. Stanza xviii. 

In " pride of place" here last the eagle flew. 

" Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means 

the highest pitch of flight. — See Macbeth, etc. 

*' An eagle towering in his pride of place 
Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd." 

Note 2. Stanza xx. 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
See the famous Song on Harmodius and Aristogiton 
— The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology 
by Mr. Denman : 

" With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," etc. 
Note 3. Stanza xxi. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 
On the night previous to the action, it is said that a 
ball was given at Brussels. 

Notes 4 and 5. Stanza xxvi. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. 

Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
"gentle Lochiel" of the "forty-five." 

Note 6. Stanza xxvii. 
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of 
the " forest of Ardennes," famous in Boiaido's Orlando, 
and immortal in Shakspeare's " As you tike it." IL is 
also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful 
defence by the Germans against the Romin encroach- 



•tnents— I nave ventured to adopt the name connected 

with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter. 

Note 7. Stanza xxx. 

I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. 

My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed 
intelligent and accurate. The place where Major How- 
ard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there 
was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) which 
stand a few yards from each other at a patliv.ay's side. 
— Beneath these he died and w^as buried. The body 
has since been removed to England. A small hollow 
for the present marks w here it lay ; but will probably 
soon be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the 
grain is. 

After pointing out the different spots where Picton 
and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, 
" Here Major Howard lay ; I was near him when 
wounded." I told him my relationship, and he seemed 
then still more anxious to point out the particular spot 
and circumstances. The place is one of the most 
marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two 
trees above-mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing 
it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, 
Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
action, though this may be mere imagination : I have 
viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, 
Leuctra, Chseronea, and Marathon; and the field around 
Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little 
but a better cause, and that undefinabie but impressive 
halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated 
spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except 
perhaps the last mentioned. 

Note 8. Stanza xxxiv. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 
The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
were said to be fair without, and within ashes. — Vide 
Tacit. Histor. 1. v. 7. 

Note 9. Stanza xli. 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 

The great error of Napoleon, "if we have writ our 
arnals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankmd 
of his want of all community of feeling for or with 
tnem; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than 
the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious 
lyrarmy. 

Such were his speeches to public asseniblies as well 
as individuals ; and the single expression which he is 
said to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian 
wmter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over 
a fire, " This is pleasanter than Moscow," would prob- 
ably alienate more favour from his cause than the 
destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 

Note 10. Stanza xlviii. 

What want these outlaws conquerors should have ? 

" What wants that knave 

That a king should have V 

wns King James s question, on meeting Johnny Arm- 
strong and his followers in full accoutrements. — See 
the Ballad. 

Note 11. Song, stanza 1. 
The castle crag of Drachenfels. 
The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest sum- 
mit of " the Seven Mountains." over the Rhine banks : 



it is in ruins, and connected with some singular tradi- 
tions : it is the first in view on the road from Bonn, 
but on the opposite side of the river ; on this bank. 
nearly facing it, are the remains of another called the 
Jew's Casile, and a large cross commemorative of the 
murder of a chief by his brother. The number of castles 
and cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides 
is very great, and their situations remarkably beautiful. 

Note 12. Stanza Ivii. 

The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 

The monument of the young and lamented General 
Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen, on the 
last day of the fourth year of the French republic) stiP 
remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required ; his name was enough ; France 
adored, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him. 
— His funeral w^as attended by the generals and detach- 
ments from both armies. In the same grave General 
Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in ever}' sense of 
the w^ord ; but though he distinguished himself greatly 
in battle, he had not the good fortune to die there ; his 
death was attended by suspicions of poison. 

A separate monument (not over his body, which is 

buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, 

opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits 

was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on 

the Rhine. The shape and st}le are different from 

that of Marceau's, and the inscription more simple and 

pleasing : 

" The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 

to its Commander-in-Chief, 

HOCHE." 

This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemeo 

among the first of France's earlier generals, before 

Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. — He was the 

destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

Note 13. Stanza Iviii. 
Here Ehrenbreilstein, with her shatter'd wall. 

Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. " the broad Stone of Honour," 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis- 
mantled and blown up by the French at the truce of 
Leoben. — It had been and could only be reduced by 
famine or treachery. It yielded to the former, aided 
by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of 
Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by compar- 
ison, but the situation is commanding. General Mar- 
ceau besieged it in vain for some time, and I slept in a 
room where I was shown a window at which he is said 
to have been standing, observing the progress of the 
siege by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately 
below it. 

Note 14. Stanza Ixiii. 
Ungepulehrcd they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost. 

The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones di- 
minished to a small number by die Burgundian legion in 
the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record 
of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still 
remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Burgun- 
dians ^or ages (all who passed that way mo\ing a bone to 
their owi. country) and the less justifiable larcenies of the 
Swiss postilions, who earned them off" to sell for knife- 
handles ; a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by 
the bleaching of years had rendered them in great re- 
quest. Of these relics 1 ventured to bring away as much 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



106 



(IS may have made the quarter of a hero, for which the 
iole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer-bj' might 
liavo perverted them to v/orse uses than the careful pre- 
servation whicli 1 mtend for them. 

Note 15. Stanza Ixv. 
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 
Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of 
Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

Note 16. Stanza Ixvi. 

And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. 

Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned 
to death as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph was 
discovered many years ago ; — it is thus — 

Julia Alpinula 

Hie jaceo, 

Infelicls patris infelix proles, 

DesD Aventice sacerdos. 

Exoraie patris necem non potui; 

Male mori in fatis ille erat. 

Vixi Annos XXIII. 

I know of no human composition so affecting as 
this, nor a histoiy of deeper interest. These are the 
names and actions which ought not to perish, and to 
which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from 
the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass 
of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused 
for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from 
whence it recurs at length with all the nausea conse- 
quent on such intoxication. 

Note 17. Stanza Ixvii. 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow. 
This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 
I31G), which even at this distance dazzles mine. 

(July 20th. ) I this day observed for some time the 
distinct reflection of jNIont Blanc and Mont Argentifere 
in the calm of the lake, wliich I was crossing in my 
boat ; the distance of these mountains from their mir- 
ror is sixty miles. 

Note 18. Stanza Ixxi. 

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 

The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth 

of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt 

or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago 

Note 19. Stanza IxxLx. 

Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 

This refers to the account in his " Confessions" of hi: 

passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. 

Lambert), and his long walk every morning for the sake 

of the single kiss which was the common salutation of 

French acquaintance. — Rousseau's description of his 

feelings on this occasion may be considered as the most 

■ passionate, yet not impure description and expression 

of love that ever kindled into words ; which after all 

must be felt, from their very force, to be inadequate 

to the delineation: a pauiting can give no sufficient 

idea of the ocean. 

Note 20. Stanza xci. 
Of earth o'er-gazing mountains. 
It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and 
>mpressi\e doctrines of the divine Founder of Chris- 
tianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the 
Mount. 
1 o waive the question of devotion, and turn to human 
N 19 



eloquence, the most effectual and splendid specimens 
were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes ad- 
dressed the publick and popular assemblies. Cicero 
spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on 
the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceiveil 
from the difference between what we read of the emo- 
tions then and there produced, and those we ourselves 
experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing 
to read the Iliad at Sigosum and on the tumuli, or by 
the springs with mount Ida above, and the plain anr" 
rivers and Archipelago around you ; and another to trim 
your taper over it in a snug librari' — this I know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the 
enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines 
(the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass 
nor to question), I should venture to ascribe it to the 
practice of preaching in the Jields, and the unstudied 
and extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 

The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
in the lower orders \ is most sincere, and therefore im 
pressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
orisons and prayers wherever they may be at the stated 
hours — of course frequently in the open air, kneeling 
upon a light mat (v/hich they carry for the purpose ot 
a bed or cushion as required) ; the ceremony lasts some 
minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and 
only living in their supplication ; nothing can disturb 
them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these 
men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far gi'eater impression thau any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of 
worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
persuasion under the sun ; including most of our own 
sectaries, and the Greek, the Cathohc, the Armenian, 
the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Muny 
of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the 
Turkidi empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of 
their belief and its rites : some of these I had a distant 
view of at Patras, and from what I could make out di 
them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan descrip- 
tion, and not very agreeable to a spectator. 
Note 21. Stanza xcii. 
The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh nigli 
The thunder-storms to which these lines refei im> 
curred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have 
seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chiman 
several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 
Note 22. Stanza xcL". 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought. 
Rousseau's Helo'ise, Letter 17, part 4, note. — "Cea 
montagnes sont si hautes, qu'une demi-heure apres le 
soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore eclaires de ses 
rayons ; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches 
une belle couleur de rost: qu'on apercoit de fort loin." 
This applies more partiualarly to the heights over 
Meillerie. 

" J'allai h Vevay loger a la Clef, et pendant deux jour* 
que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour ceti^ 
vilie un amour qui m'a suivi dans tons mes voyages, 
et qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de mon roman. 
Je dirois volontiers k ceux qui ont du gout et qui sont 
sensibles : Allez a Vevay — visitez le pays, exAmine7 .en 
sites, promenez-vous sur l**. lac, et dites si la narnre 
n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour uno 



106 



BYRON S WORKS. 



ijluire et pour un Saint- Proux ; mais ne les y cherchez 
pas." Les Confessions, livre iv. page 306. Lyon, 
1796. 

Ill July, 1S16, I made a voyage round the lake of 
Geneva ; and as far as my own observations have led 
me m a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all 
tlio scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his "He- 
Joise," I can safely say, that in this there is no exagge- 
ration. It would be difficult to see Clarens (witli the 
scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St. Gingo, 
JNIeillerie, Evian, and the entrances of the Rhone), with- 
out being forcibly struck with its pecuUar adaptation 
to the persons and events with which it has been peo- 
pled. But this is not all ; the feeUng with which all 
around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is 
invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive 
order than the mere sympathy with individual passion ; 
It is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended 
and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of 
Us good and of its glory : it is the great principle of the 
universe, which is there more condensed, but not less 
manifested ; and of which, thougli knowing ourselves a 
part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in tlie beauty 
of the whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same 
associations would not less have belonged to such 
scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by 
tlieir adoption ; he has shown his sense of their beauty 
by the selection; but they have done that for him 
which no human being could do for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail 
from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St. 
Gingo during a lake-storm, which added to the magni- 
licence of all around, a-ithough occasionally accompa- 
nied b;- danger to the bont, which was small and over- 
loaded. It was over this very part of the lake that 
Rousseau has driven tiie boat of St. Preux and Madame 
Wolmar to ]Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. 

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the 
wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some 
fine old chesnut trees on the lower part of the moun- 
tains. On the opposite height is a seat called the Cha- 
teau de Clarens. The hills are covered %vith \ineyards, 
and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods ; 
one of these was named the " Bosquet de Julie," and it 
IS -emarkable that, though long ago cut down by the 
brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bernard (to whom 
the land appertained), that the ground might be in- 
closed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an 
execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still 
point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by 
the name which consecrated and survived tliem. 

Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the 
preservation of the " local habitations " he has given to 
" airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has 
cui down some of his woods for the sake of a few 
casks of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the 
rocks of iNIeillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. 
'Vhe road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree 
with a remarK which I heard made, that " La route 
v'tut mieux que les souvenirs." 

Note 23. Stanza cv. 
Lausanne and Ferney ! yc have been the abodes. 
VoitdLUG And Gibbon. 



Note 24. Stanza cxiii. 
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdueJ. 

" if it be thus,^ 

For Banquo's issue have ijikd my mind." 
Macbeth. 

Note 25. Stanza cxiv. 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve. 
It is said by Rochefoucault that " there is alv:ays 
something in the misfortimes of men's best friends not 
displeasing to them." 



CANTO IV. 



Note 1. Stanza i. 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand. 

The communicationbetwecn the Ducal palace and the 
prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gal- 
lery, high above the water, and divided by a stone wall 
into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, called 
" pozzi," or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of the 
palace ; and the prisoner when taken out to die was 
conducted across the gallery to the other side, and being 
then led back into the other compartment, or cell, upon 
the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal through 
which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled 
up ; but the passage is still open, and is still known by 
the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under 
the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. 
They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of the 
French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up th(? 
deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, de- 
scend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, 
half choked by nibbish, to the depth of two storeys 
below the first range. If you are in want of consolation 
for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may 
find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the 
narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of 
confinement themselves are totally dark. A small hole 
in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, and 
served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. A 
wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was the 
only furniture. The conductors tell you that a light 
was not allowed. The cells are about five paces ia length, 
two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. They 
are directly beneath one another, and respiration is 
somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner 
was found when the republicans descended into these 
hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined 
sixteen 5-ears. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath 
had left traces of their repentance, or of their despair, 
which are still visible, and may perhaps owe something 
to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to 
have offended against, and others to have belonged to, 
the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but from 
the churches and belfries which they have scratched 
upon the walls. The reader may not object to see a spe- 
cimen of the records prompted by so terrific a solitude. 
As nearly as they could be copied by more than one 
pencil, three of them are as follows : 
1. 
NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO. PENSA c TACI 
SE FUGIR VUOi DI SPIONI INSIDIE e LACCl 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



107 



\h PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
r*A BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

lACOMO. GRITTI. SCRISSE. 
2. 
UN PARLAR POCO et 
NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 

1605. 
EGO lOHN BAPTISTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 
3. 
DT CHI MI FIDO GUARDAM DIO 
DI CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDERO 10 

VA. LA STA. CH. KA. RNA. 

The copyist has followed, not corrected, the solecisms; 

some of which are however not quite so decided, since the 

letters were evidently scratched m the dark. It only 

need be observed, that Bcstemmia and JSIangiar may 

be read in the first inscription, which was probably 

written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety 

committed at a funeral : the Cortellarius is the name of 

a parish on terra firma, near the sea : and that the last 

initials evidently are put for Viva la Santa Ckiesa 

Kattolica Romana. 

Note 2. Stanza ii. 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers. 

An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, 
has made use of the above image, which would not be 
poetical were it not true. 

"Quo Jit ut qui superne urbem contempletur, turritam 
tdluris imaginem medio oceano Jiguratam se putet in- 
spicere,^^ ' 

Note 3. Stanza iii. 
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 

The well-kno\A'n song of the gondoliers, of alternate 
stanzas, from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the inde- 
pendence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the 
original on one column, and the Venetian variations on 
the other, as sung by the boatmen, were once common, 
and are still to be found. The following extract will serve 
to show the difference between the Tuscan epic and the 
"Canta alia Barcariola." 

Original. 
Canto r armi pietose, e '1 capitano 

Che M gran sepolcro libero di Cristo. 
Molto egli oprb col senno, e con la mano 

Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto; 
E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 

S' armb d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 
Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto a i santi 
Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

Venetian. 
L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 

E de Golfredo la immortal braura, 
Che .-^l fin 1' ha libera co strassia, e dogia 

Del nostro buon Gesu la sepoltura ; 
De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 

Missier Pluton no 1' ha bu mai paura; 
Dio r ha agiuta, e i compagni sparpagnai 
Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 



I Marci Antonii Sabelli, de Venetse Urbis situ, narratio, edit. 
Tjiurin. l.'ST.lib. 1. fol. 202. 



Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Child" 
Harold, and another Englishman, the ^^Titer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of whom 
was a carpenter, and the other a gondoher. The former 
placed himself at the prow, the latter at the stem of the 
boat. A little after leaving the quay of the Piazetta, they 
began to sing, and continued their exercise until we 
arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst other 
essays, the death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida; 
and did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of the tv,-o, 
and was frequently obliged to prompt hi-s companion, 
told us that he could translate the original. He added, 
that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, but had 
not spirits {morbin was the word he used), to learn any 
more, or to sing what he already knew : a man must 
have idle time on his hands to acquire, or to repeat, and, 
said the poor fellow, "look at my clothes and at me, I 
am starving." This speech was more affecting than his 
performance, which liabit alone can make attractive. 
The recitative was shrill, screaming, and monotonous, 
and the gondoUer behind assisted his voice by holding 
his hand to one side of his mouth. The carpenter used a 
quiet action, which he e\'idently endeavoured to restram, 
but was too much interested in his subject altogether to 
repress. From these men we iearnt that singing is not 
confined to the gondoliers, and that, although the chaunt 
is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still several amongst 
the lower classes who are acquainted with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to 
row and sing at the same time. Although the verses of 
the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet 
much music upon the Venetian canals ; and upon holi- 
days, those strangers who are not near or informed 
enough to distinguish the words, may fanc\ that many of 
the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. The 
writer of some remarks which appeared in the Curiosities 
of Literature must excuse his being twice quoted ; for, 
with the exception of some phrases a little too ambitious 
and extravagant, he has fumistied a very exact, as well 
as agreeable, description. 

"In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- 
sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chaunt them with 
a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at present on 
the dechne : — at least, after taking some pains, I could 
find no more than two persons who delivered to me in 
this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late 
Mr. Berry once chaunted to me a passage in Tasso in the 
manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

*' There are always two concerned, who alternately 
sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually bv 
Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it has properly no 
melodious movement ; and is a sort of medium between 
the canto fermo and the canto figurato ; it approaches tf» 
the former by recitativical declamation, and to the lattei 
by passages and course, by which one syllable is detained 
and embellished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one singer placed 
himself forv/ards, and the other aft, and thus proceeded 
to St. Georgio. One began the song : when he had enoeil 
his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so continued 
the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, tne 
same notes invariably returned, but, according to t/)» 



108 



BYRONS WORKS. 



subject mahcr of the strophe, they laid a greater or a 
smaller stirjss, sometimes on one, and sometimes on 
another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the 
whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and 
screaming: thc)' seemed, in the manner of all rude un- 
civilized men, to make the excellency of their singing in 
the force of their voice : one seemed desirous of conquer- 
mg the other by the strength of his lungs ; and so far 
from receiving delight from this scene (shut up as I was 
in the box of the gondola), I found myself in a very un- 
pleasant situation. 

" My companion, to whom I communicated this cir- 
cumstance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of 
his counti-ymt-n, assured me that this singing was very 
delightful when heard at a distance. Accordingly we 
got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the 
gondola, while the other went to the distance of some 
hundred paces. They nov; began to sing against one 
another, and I kept walking up and down between them 
both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part. 
I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to 
the other. 

" Plere the scene was properly introduced. The strong 
declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the 
ear from far, and called forth the attention ; the quickly- 
succectling transitions, which necessarily required to be 
sung in a lower tone, seemed hke plaintive strains suc- 
ceeding the vociferation of emotion or of pain. The 
otlier, who listened attentively, immediately began where 
the former left off, answering him in milder or more 
vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe 
reqidred. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the 
splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few 
gondolas, that moved like spirits hither and thither, in- 
creased the striking peculiarity of the scene ; and, amidst 
all these circumstances, it was easy to confess the char- 
acter of this wondei-ful harmony. 

"It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, 
lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these canals, 
waiting for his companj^, or for a fare, the tiresomeness 
of which situation is somewhat alleviated by the songs 
and poetical stories he has in memory. He often raises 
his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast 
distance over the tranquil mirror, and as all is still around, 
he is, as it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and 
populous tovMi. Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise 
of foot passengers : a silent gondola glides now and then 
by him, of which the splashing of the oars is scarcely 
to be heard. 

"At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- 
known to him. INIelody and verse immediately attach 
the two strangers ; be becomes the responsive echo to the 
former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard 
the other. By a tacit convention they alternate verse for 
verse ; though the song should last the whole night 
through, t.iey entertain themselves without fatigue ; the 
hearers, who are passing between the two, take part in 
3ie amusement. 

" This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
fiilfils its des.gn in the sentiment of remoteness. It is 
plamtive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is 
sca'*ceiv T^ossible to refrain from tears. IVIy companion, 
WHO Qthfc'wis.e was not a very dehcately organized person, 



said quite unexpectedly: '6 singolare come quel canta 
intenerisce, e molto piu quando lo cantano meglio.' 

"I was told that the women of Libo, the long row 
of islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns, ' 
particularly the women of the extreme districts of Mala- 
mocca and Palestnna, sing in like manner the works of 
Tasso to these and similar tunes. 

" They have the custom, when their husbands are 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings 
and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with 
great violence, till each of them can distinguish tlie 
responses of her own husband at a distance." ^ 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes 
of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. 
The city itself can occasionally furnish respectable au- 
diences for two and even three opera-houses at a time ; 
and there are few events in private life that do not call 
forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a physician 
or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman preach his 
maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an operation, 
would a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, 
are 3'ou to be congratulated on a marriage, or a birth, or a 
law-suit, the Muses are invoked to furnish the same num- 
ber of syllables, and the individual triumphs blaze abroad 
in virgin white or party-coloured placards on half the cor- 
ners of the capital. The last curtsy of a favourite "prima 
donna" brings dov.n a shower of these poetical tributes 
from those upper regions, from which, in our theatres, 
nothing but cupids and snow-storms are accustomed to 
descend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, 
which, in its common course, is varied with those surprises 
and changes so recommendable in fiction, but so different 
from the sober monotony of northern existence ; amuse- 
ments are raised into duties, duties are softened mto 
amusements, and every object being considered as equaj- 
ly making a part of the business of life, is announced and 
performed with the same earnest indifference and ga;f 
assiduity. The Venetian gazette constantly closes iu 
columns with the following triple advertisement : 
Charade. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church of St. 



Theatres. 
St. Moses, opera. 

St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
St. Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe then 
consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it worth} 
of a more respectable niche than between poetry and tht 
playhouse. 

Note 4. Stanza x. 
Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 
The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the strangers 
who praised the memory of her son. 

Note 5. Stanza xi. 

St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand.— 

The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the Jn 

valides, but the gospel which supported the paw that is 

now on a level with the other foot. The horses, also, 

are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, 

and are, as before, half hidden under the porch window 

of St. Mark's church. 



1 The writer meant Lido, which is not a long rowof islai^da, 
but a long island — littus, the shore. 

2 Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p. 156. edit. 1807 ; ana 
Appendix xxLx. to Black's Life of Tasso. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



109 



Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been 
satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts of 
Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold 
Cicognara, would have givnn them a Roman extraction, 
and a pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. 
Bat M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians 
the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindicated, 
at last and for ever, the pretension of his countrymen 
to this noble production. ^ Mr. Mustoxidi has not been 
left without a reply ; but, as yet, he has received no 
answer. It should seem that the horses are irrevocably 
Chian, and were transferred to Constantinople by The- 
•)dosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite play of the 
Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary characters. One of the best speci- 
mens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable volume 
of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacciaudi. 
Several were prepared for the recovered horses. It is 
to be hoped that the best was not selected, when the 
following words were ranged in gold letters above the 
cathedral porch : 

QUATUOR . EQtJORUM . SIGNA . A . VENETIS . BY- 
ZANTIO . CAPTA . AD . TEMP . D . MAR . A . R . S . 
MCCIV . POSITA . q.VJE . HOSTILIS . CUPIDITAS . A . 
MDCCCJII . ABSTULERAT . FRANC . I . IMP . PACIS . 
ORB! , UATiE . TROPH^UM . A . MDCCCXV . VICTOR . 
REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be per- 
mitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians in 
transporting the horses from Constantinople was at 
[east equal to that of the French in carrying them to 
Paris, and that it would have been more prudent to have 
avoided all allusions to either robbery. An apostolic 
prince should, perhaps, have objected to affixing, over 
the principal entrance of a metropolitan church, an in- 
scription having a reference to any other triumphs than 
those of religion. Nothing less than the pacification 
of the world can excuse such a solecism. 

Note 6. Stanza xii. 
The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt. 

After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians, 
entirely to throw off* the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
*and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make him- 
self absolute master throughout the whole of his Cisal- 
pine dominions, the bloody struggles of four-and-twenty 
years were happily brought to a close in the city of Ven- 
ice. The articles of a treaty had been previously 
agreed upon between Pope Alexander III. and Barba- 
rossa, and the former, having received a safe-conduct, 
had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in com- 
pany with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the 
consuls of the Lombard league. There still remained, 
however, many points to adjust, and for several days 
the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 
juncture it was suddenly reported that the emperor 
had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the 
capital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted 
upon immediately conducting him to the city. The 
Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards Tre- 
viso. The Pope himself w-as apprehensive of some dis- 
aster if Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, 
but was re-assured by the prudence and address of 

1 Sui qtiattro caval.l del'a Basilica di S. Marco in Venezia. 
Letf(>ra di Andrpa Mustoxidi Corcirese. Padova per Bettoni 
e comDagni. 18H> 



Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Sev eral embassies passed 
between Chioza and the capital, until, at last, the emperor 
relaxing som.ewhat of his pretensions, 'Maid aside his 
leonine ferocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb." " 
On Saturday the 23d of Julj', in the year 1177, six 
Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, 
from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
Early the next morning, the Pope, accompanied by the 
Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lom.bardy, 
whom he had recalled from the main land, together 
with a great concourse of people, repaired from the 
patriarchal palace to Saint Mark's church, and solemnly 
absolved the emperor and his partisans from the ex- 
communication pronounced against him. The chan- 
cellor of the empire, on the part of his master, re- 
nounced the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. 
Immediately the doge, with a great suite both of the 
clergy and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting 
on Frederic, rowed him in might}' state from the Lido 
to the capital. The emperor descended from the galley 
at the quay of the Piazetta. The doge, the patriarch, 
his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice, with 
their crosses and their standards, marched in solemn 
procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. 
Alexander w-as seated before the vestibule of the ba- 
sihca, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by the 
patriarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and bishops 
of Lombardy, all of them in state, and clothed in their 
church robes. Frederic approached — " moved by tlio 
Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person ol 
Alexander, laying aside his imperial dignity, and throw- 
ing off" his mantle, he prostrated himself at full length 
at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his 
eyes, raised him benignantly from the ground, kissed 
him, blessed him ; and immediately the Germans of the 
train sang, with a loud voice, ' We praise thee, O Lord. 
The emperor then taking the Pope by the right hand, 
led him to the church, and, having received his bene- 
diction, returned to the ducal palace." ^ The ceremon} 
of humiliation was repeated the next day. The Pope 
himself, at the request of Frederic, said mass at Saint 
Mark's. The emperor again laid aside his imperial 
mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, officiated as 
verger, driving the laity from the choir, and preceding 
the pontiff" to the altar. Alexander, after reciting th(j 
gospel, preached to the people. The em.peror put him- 
self close to the pulpit in the attitude of listening ; and 
the pontiff", touched by this mark of his attention, for 
he knew that Frederic did not understand a word he 
said, commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate 
the Latin discourse into the German tongue. The creed 
was then chaunted. Frederic made his oblation, and 
kissed the Pope's feet, and, mass being over, led him by 
the hand to his white horse. He held the stirrup, and 
would have held the horse's rein to the water side, had 
not the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- 
formance, and aff'ectionately dismissed him with his 
benediction. Such is the substance of the account left 
by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present at the 
ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by every sub- 
sequent narration. It would not be worth su minute 
a record, were it not the triumph of liberty as well 5,9 



1 "Ciiiibus aiiditis. imperator, nperante eo, qui corda prin- 
ripum sicut vult et quando vult humililer mclinat, leoir.iia 
feiitatP deposita, ovinam mansuetudinem induit." Romurtid) 
Salernitani. Chronicon. apud Script. Rer. Ital. torn. Vll. p 'HJa 

2 Ibid. p. 231. 



IJO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



of superstition. Thf states of Lombardy owed to it the 
confirmation of their privileges ; and Alexander had 
reason to tuank the Almighty, who had enabled an in- 
firm, unarmed old man to subdue a terrible and potent 
sovereign.' 

Note 7. Stanza xii. 

Oh. for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 

Th* octotcnarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the high- 
lander. Oh, for one hour of Dundee! Henry Dandolo, 
when elected doge, in 1192, was eighty-five years of age. 
\Yhen he commanded the Venetians at the taking of 
Constantinople, he was consequently ninety-seven years 
old. At this age he annexed the fourth and a half of 
the whole empire of Romania, ^ for so the Roman em- 
pire was then called, to the title and to the territories of 
the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of this empire 
were preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of 
Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above designa- 
tion m the year 1357. ■* 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantmople in person : 
two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied to- 
gether, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their 
higher yards to the walls. The doge was one of the first 
to rush into the city. Then was completed, said the 
Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraean sybil. " A 
gathering together of the powerful shall be made amidst 
the waves of the Adriatic, under a bUnd leader : they 
shall beset the goat— they shall profane Byzantium — 
they shall blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be dis- 
persed ; a new goat shall bleat until they have measured 
out and run over fifty- four feet, nine inches, and a half."'' 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having 
reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and 
was buried in the church of St. Sophia, at Constanti- 
nople. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name 
of the rebel apothecary who received the doge's sword, 
and annihilated the ancient government in 1796-7, was 
Dandolo. 

Note 8. Stanza xiii. 

But is not Dcria's menace come to pass 1 
Are they not bridled ? 

After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 

Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united 

armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 

1 See the above-cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second 
sermon which Alexander preached, on the first day of Au- 
gust, before the ei.ipcror, he compared Frederic to the prodigal 
Bon, and himself to the forgiving father. 

2 Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important x, and has written 
Romani instead of Romania: — Decline and Fall, chap. Ixi. 
note 9. But the title acquired by Dandolo runs thus in the 
chronicle of his namesake, the Doge Andrew Dandolo: — 
Ducali tiiulo addidit, " Quartx partis et dimidix totius im- 
perii RomanisE^y And. Dand. Chronicon. cap. iii. pars x.xxvii. 
ap. Script. Rer. Ital. tom. xii. page 331. And the Romanise 
is obser\ed in the subsequent acts of the doges. Indeed the 
continental possessions of the Greek empire in Europe, were 
then senerally known by the name of Romania, and that ap- 
pellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as applied to 
Thrace. 

3 See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid. p. 498. 
Mr. Gihhon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, 
«vho says, " il qual titnlo si usn fin al Doge Giovanni Dol- 
fina." See Vite de' Duchi de Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Ital. 
•urn. xxii. .530, 641. 

4 "Fiet potentium in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, caeco 
pnediicc, Hircum ambisent, Byzantium prophanabunt, aedi- 
6cia denigrnhunt,; epolia dispergentur, Hircus novus balabit 
(laqnc dum LIV. pe;ies et IX. pollices et semis, praemensurati 
Jutur'ar.t-" iJhronicon. ibid, pars xxxiv. 



Signor of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to thet.v- 
most despair. An embassy was sent to the conqucrois 
with a blank sheet of paper, praying rhem to prescribe 
what terms they pleased, and leave to Venice only her 
independence. The Prince of Padua was inclined to 
listen to these proposals, but the Genoese, who, after 
the victory at Pola, had shouted, " to Venice, to Ven- 
ice, and long hve St. George," determined to annihilate 
their rival, and Peter Doria, their commander-in-chief, 
returned this answer to the suppliants: "On God's 
faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace from 
the Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, 
until we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses 
of yours, that are upon the porch of your evangelist St. 
Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you 
quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of our com- 
mune. As for these my brothers of Genoa, that you 
have brought with you to give up to us, I will not have 
them : take them back ; for, in a few days hence, I 
shall come and let them out of prison myself, both the.se 
and all the others." ' In fact, the Genoese did advance 
as far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital ; 
but their own danger, and the pride of their enemies, 
gave courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious 
efforts, and many individual sacrifices, all of them care- 
fully recorded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was 
put at the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese 
broke up from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza in 
October ; but they again threatened Venice, which was 
reduced to extremities. At this time, the 1st of Janu- 
arj', 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising 
on the Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The 
Venetians were now strong enough to besiege the Ge- 
noese. Doria was killed on the 22d of January by a 
stone bullet a hundi-ed and ninety-five pounds weight, 
discharged from a bombard called the Trevisan. Chioza 
was then closely invested ; five thousand auxiliaries 
amongst whom were some English Condottieri, com- 
manded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Venetians. 
The G enoese, in their turn, prayed for conditions, bui 
none were granted, until, at last, they surrendered al 
discretion ; and, on the 24th of June, 1380, the Doge 
Contarini made his triumphal entry into Chioza. Four 
thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, many small eiT 
vessels and barks, with all the ammunition and arms, 
and outfit of the expedition, fell into the hands of thrj 
conquerors, who, had it not been for the inexorable 
answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced their do- 
minion to the city of Venice. An account of these 
transactions is found in a work called the War of 
Chioza, written by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Ven 
ice at the time.^ 

Note 9. Stanza xiv. 
The *' Planter of the Lion." 
Plant the Lion — that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the 



1 " Alia fe di Dio, Signori Veneziani, non haverete mai pace 
dal Signore di Padoua, ne dal nostro comune di Geneva, se 
primieramente non mettemo le brigiie a quelli vostri cavalli 
sfrenati, chc sonosu laRezadelVostro Evangelista S. Marco. 
Infrenati che gli havremo, vi faremo stare in buona pace. E 
questa e la intenzione nostra, e del nostro comune. Q,nesti 
miei fratelli Genovesi, che havete menati con voi per donarci 
non li voglio ; rimanetegli in dietro perche io intendo da qui 
a pochi giorni venirgli a riscuoter dalle vostre prigioni e lora 
e gli allri." 

2 "Chronica della guerra di Chioza," etc. Script. Rer. lla 
tom. XV p. 699 to 804. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



ni 



standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word 
pantaloon — Pianta-ieone, Pantaleone, Pantaloon. 
Note 10. Stanza xv. 
Thin titreets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 

The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand 
souls. At the last census, taken two j'ears ago, it was 
no more than about one hundred and three thousand, 
and it diminishes daily. The commerce and the official 
employments, which were to be the unexhausted source 
of Venetian grandeur, have both expired.' Most of the 
patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually 
disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the de- 
molition of seventy-two, dunng the last two years, ex- 
pressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many 
remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks 
of the Bre.nta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or 
are sinking, in the general decay. Of the " gentil uomo 
Veneto," the name is still known, and that is all. He 
is but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and 
kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is que- 
rulous. W^hatever may have been the vices of the re- 
pubHc, and although the natural term of its existence 
may be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due 
course of mortaUty, only one sentimeni can be expected 
from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the 
subjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution 
to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when it was 
for the last time unfurled ; and the cowardice and the 
treachery of the few patricians who recommended the 
fatal neutrality, were confined to the persons of the 
traitors themselves. 

The present race cannot be thought to regret the 
loss of their aristocratical forms, and too despotic gov- 
ernment; they think only on theii- vanished indepen- 
dence. They pine away at the remembrance, and on 
this subject suspend for a moment their gay good-hu- 
mour. Venice may be said, in the words of the scrip- 
ture, " to die daily ;" and so general and so apparent 
is the decline, as to become painful to a stranger, not 
reconciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring, as it 
were, before his eyes. So artificial a creation, having 
lost that principle which called it into life and sup- 
ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and 
sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence of 
slaver}^, which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, 
since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd 
of dependants, and not present the humiliating specta- 
cle of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their 
liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires 
to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances ; but 
many pecuJ.iarities of costume and manner have by 
degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride com- 
mon to all Italians who have been marters, have not 
been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That 
splendour which was a proof and a portion of their 

power, they would not degrade into the trappings 



1 " Nonnullorum e nobilitate immensee sunt opes, adeo ut 
vix BBstimari possint : id quod tribus e rebus oritur, parsimonia, 
commercio, atque iis emolumentis, quEe e Repub. percipiunt, 
quffi banc ob causam diuturna fore creditur." — See De Prin- 
fcipatibus Italias Tractatus, edit. 1631. 



of their subjection. They retired from the space which 
they had occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens ; 
their continuance in which v/ould have been a symptom 
of acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered by 
the common misfortune. Those who remained in the 
degraded capit?' might be said rather to haunt the 
scenes of their departed power, than to live in them. 
The reflection, " who and what enthrals," will hardly 
bear a comment from one who is, nationally, the friend 
and the ally of the conqueror. It may, however, be 
allowed to say thus much, that, to those who wish to 
recover their independence, any masters must be an 
object of detestation ; and it may be safely foretold that 
this unprofitable aversion will not have been con-ected 
before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her 
choked canals. 

Note 11. Stanza xvl. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. 
The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 

Note 12. Stanza xviii. 
And Otway, RadciifTe. Schiller, Shakspeare's art. 
Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the Ghost- 
seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Othello. 

Note 13. Stanza xx. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks. 

Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir pecu- 
liar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, 
where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can he 
found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than 
any other mountain tree. 

Note 14. Stanza xxviii. 
A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven. 

The above description may seem fantastical or exag- 
gerated to those who have never seen an oriental or as 
Italian sky ; yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient 
delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth), as 
contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of 
the Brenta near La Mira. 

Note 15. Stanza xxx. 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we 
now know as little of Laura as ever.' The discoveries 
of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no 
longer instruct or amuse. ^ We must not, however, 
think that these memoirs are as much a romance as 
Belisarius or the Incas, although we are told so by Dr. 
Beattie, a great name, but a little authority.' His "la- 
bour" has not been in vain, notwithstanding his "love" 
has, hke most other passions, made him ridiculous.'* 
The hypothesis which overpowered the struggling Ita- 



1 See A historical and critical Essay on the Life and Char- 
acter of Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on a Histoncai Hy- 
pothesis of the Abbe de Sade: the first appeared about the 
year 1784 ; the other is inserted in the fourth volume of the 
Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh ; and both 
have been incorporated into a work, published under the first 
title, by Ba'lantyne in 1810. 

2 Memoirs pour la Vie de Petrarque. 

3 Life of Beattie, by Sir. W. Forbes, t. ii. p. 106- 

4 Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs " a labour of lova,'''' (see 
Decline and Fall, cap. Ixx, note 1.) and foliowe 1 him with 
confidence and delight. The compiler of a very vo.ummoaa 
work must take much ciiticism upon trust: Mr. Gibboa hai 
done so, though not so readily as some other authors. 



112 



HYHONS WORKS. 



lians, and ca«fied along »css interested critics in its 
•Mirrent, is run out. We have another proof tliat we 
can never be sure that tlie paradox, the most singular, 
and therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
air, will not give place to the re-established ancient 
prejudice. 

It seems then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. 
The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, 
maj' resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la 
Biistie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- 
thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the 
parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of 
the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to 
the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. 
If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was 
written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited, with- 
in the space of twelve hours ; and these deliberate du- 
ties were performed round the carcass of one who died 
of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day 
of her death. These documents, therefore, are too de- 
cisive : they prove, not the fact, but the forgery. Either 
the sonnet or the "^'irgilian note must be a falsification. 
The Abbe cites both as incontestably true ; the conse- 
quent deduction is inevitable — they are both evidently 
false. • 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty 
virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife who 
iionoured Avignon "by making that town the theatre of 
an honest French passion, and played off for one-and- 
twenty years her little viachmery of alternate favours 
and refusals ^ upon the first poet of the age. It was, 
mdeed, rather too unfair that a female should be made 
responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a mis- 
interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of ahbrarian.^ 
It is, however, satisfactory to thmk that the love of 
Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness which he 
prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely 
not of the mind,'^ and something so very real as a mar- 
riage project, with one who has been idly called a 
shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least 
six places of his own sonnets.* The love of Petrarch 
was neither platonic nor poetical ; and, if in one passage 
of his works he calls it " amore veementeissimo ma 
unico ed onesto," hr, confesses, in a letter to a friend. 



1 The sonnet had before awakcnerl the suspicions of Mr. 
Horace VVdlpole. See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 

2 "Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de faveurs et de 
rigueurs bien menagce, une femme tendre et sage amuse, 
pendant vingt-un ans, le plus grand poete de son siecle, sans 
iaire la moindre breche k son honneur." Mem. pour la 
Vie de Petrarque, Preface aux Francais. The Italian editor 
of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord 
VVoodhouselee, renders the " femme tendre et sage," "rif- 
fiiiata civetta.'" Riflessioni intorno a Madonna Laura, p. 2c$4. 
vol. iii. ed. IHll. 

;i In a dialogue with St. Augustin, Petrarch has described 
Laura as having a body exhausted with repeated ;^^«7^9. The 
old editors read and printed perturbatiovihus; but M. Capper- 
onier, librarian to the French King, in 17G2, who saw the MS. 
in tlie Paris library, made an attestation that "on lit et qu'on 
ioitlircp.'irf/uhisexfianstvm.'" De Sade joined the names 
of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with M. Capperonier, and in the 
whole discussion on this jjtubs, showed himself a do wnricht 
literary rogue. Sec Riflessioni. etc., p. 2G7. Thomas Aquinas 
i« called in to settle whether Petrarch's mistress was a chaste 
maid or a continent wife. 

4 " Piamalion, quanto lodarti dei 
Dftir iramagine tua, se, mille volte 
N' avLeitiqufei cii' i' sol una vorrei." 

Sonetto .58, Quando pinnse a Simon V 
alto concetto. 7x Rime, etc., par. i. 
pag. 1B9. edit. Ven. 1756. 
Sf Kifle.«sioni, etc., p. 291. 



that it was guilty and perverse, that iv aosorbed hirfr 
quite, and mastered his heart. ' 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for 
the culpability of his wishes ; for the Abbe de Sade 
himself, who certainly would not have been scrupu- 
lously dehcate, if he could have proved his descent from 
Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stout defence 
of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the 
poet, we have no security for the innocence, except 
perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us, 
m his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his 
fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost 
all recollection and image of any "irregularity."^ But 
the birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned 
earlier than his thirt3'-ninth year ; and either the mem- 
ory or the morality of the poet must have failed him, 
when he forgot or was guilty of this sZip.^ The weakest 
argument for the purity of this love has been drav, n il-om 
the permanence of effects, which survived the object of 
his passion. The reflection of JNI. de la Bastie, that 
virtue alone is capable of making impressions which 
death catmot efface, is one of those which every body 
applauds, and every body finds not to be true, the mo- 
ment he examines his own breast or the records of 
human feeling.''- Such apophthegms can do nothing for 
Petrarch or for the cause of morality, except with the 
very weak and the very young. He that has made even 
a httle progress beyond ignorance and pupilage, catsnol 
be edified with any thing but truth. What is called 
vindicating the honour of an individual or a nation, is 
the most futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing j 
altliough it will always meet with more applause than 
tliat sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious 
desire of reducing a great man to the common standard 
of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that our 
historian was iighc in retaining his favourite hypothetic 
salvo, whicii secures the author, although it scarcely saves 
the honoui' of the still unknown mistress of Petraich.' 

Note 16. Stanza xxxi. 
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. 
Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return 
from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rome, 
in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his cele- 
brated visit to Venice in company with Francesco No- 
vello de Carrara, he appears to have passed the four last 
j'ears of his Ufe between that charming solitude and 
Padua. For four months previous to his death he was 
in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of 
July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in his 
library chair with his head resting upon a book. The 
chair is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arqua, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been 
attached to every thing relative to this great man, from 



1 " Q,uella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto mi occu 
pava e mi regnava nel cuore." 

2 Jlzion disontsta, are his words. 

3 " A questa confessione cosi sincera diede forse occasione 
una nuova caduta ch' ei fece." Tiraboschi, Storia, etc., torn. 
v. lib. iv. par. ii. pag. 492. 

4 " 11 n^y a que la vertu senle qui soit capable de faire des 
impressions que la mort 7i' efface pa.'i.'' M. de Bimard, Baron 
de la Bastie, in the Memoires de ('Academic des Inscriptions 
et Belles-Lettres for 1740 and 1751. See also Riflessioni, etc 
p. 295. 

5 " And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable 
he enjoyed, and might boast of enjoying the nymph of poel 
r>-." Decline and Fall, cap. Ixx. p. 327. vol. xii. oct. Pei 
haps the if is here meant for altliov^k. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



11.3 



.be mnme-iit of his death to the present hour, have, it 
may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than tlie 
Shakspearian memorials of Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pronun- 
ciation, although the analogy of the Enghsh language 
has been observed in the verse), is twelve miles from 
Padua, and about three miles on the right of the high 
road to Rovigo, in the bosom of the Euganean hills. 
Atier a walk of twenty minutes, across a flat well- wooded 
meadow, you come to a little blue lake, clear but fathom- 
less, and to the foot of a succession of acclivities and 
hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir 
and pomegranate trees, and every sunny fruit-shrub. 
From the banks of the lake, the road winds into the hills, 
and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft 
where two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly 
inclose the village. The houses are scattered at intervals 
on the steep sides of these summits ; and that of the 
poet is on the edge of a Uttle knoll overlooking two de- 
icents, and commanding a view not only of the glowing 
gardens in the dales immediately beneath, but of the 
wide plains, above whose low woods of mulberry and 
willow thickened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, 
tail single cypresses, and the spires of towns are seen 
ui the distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po 
and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of diese 
volcanic hills is wanner, and the vintage begins a week 
sooner than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, 
for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of 
red marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, 
and preserved from an association with meaner tombs. 
It stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon over- 
shadovv'ed by four lately-planted laurels. Petrarch's 
fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and 
expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below 
the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, 
with that soft water which was the ancient wealth of 
tha Euganean hills. It would be more attractive, werp 
it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. 
No other coincidence could assimilate the tombs of 
Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of centu- 
ries have spared these sequestered valleys, and the 
onlv violence which has been cfTered to the ashes of 
Petiarch, was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. 
An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of its 
treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Floren- 
tine, through a rent which is still visible. The injury is 
not forgotten, but has served to identify the poet with 
the country where he was bom, but where he would 
not live. A peasant boy of Arqua being asked who 
Petrarch was, rephed, "that the people of the par- 
sonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
he was a Florentine." 

Mr. Forsyth ^ was not quite correct in saying, that 
P(;trarch never returned to Tuscany after he had once 
quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through 
Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his 
return in the year 1350, and remained there long enough 
to form some acquamtance with its most distmguished 
inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the 
aversion of the poet for his native country, was eager to 
Doint out this trivial error in our accomphshed traveller, 
wnom he knew and respected for an extraordinary 



capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, joined 
to that engaging simphcity of manners which has been 
so frequently recognised as the surest, though it is rei • 
tainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously 
traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged is 
shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, m order 
to decide the ancient controversy between their city ani 
the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried 
when seven months old, and remained until his seventh 
year, have designated, by a long inscription, the spot 
vi'here their great fellow-citizen was born. A tablet has 
been raised to him at Pamia, in the chapel of St. Agatha, 
at the cathedral, ^ because he was archdeacon of that 
societj', and was only snatched from his intended sepul- 
ture in their church by a. foreign death. Another tablet 
with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on ac- 
count of his having passed the autumn of 1368 in that 
city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political con- 
dition which has for ages precluded the Italians from 
the criticism of the living, has concentrated their 
attention to the illustration of the dead. 

Note 17. Stanza xxxiv. 
Or, it may be, with demons. 
The struCTcle is to the full as likely to be with demons 
as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- 
ness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our un- 
sulhed John Locke preferred the presence of a child tJ 
complete solitude. 

Note 18. Stanza xxxvin. 

In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
And Boileau, whose raEh envy, etc. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to jus- 
tify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse. 

A Malherbe, a Racan, preferer Theophile, 
£t le clinquant du Tasse a tout Tor de Vngile. 

Sat. ix. verse ]7G. 
The biographer Serassi,^ out of tenderness to the repu- 
tation either of the ItaUan or the French poet, is eager 
to observe that the satirist recanted or explained away 
this censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the 
Jerusalem to be a " genius subUme, vast, and happily 
born for the higher flights of poetry." To this we will 
add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, when 



1 Remarks, etc. on Italy, p, 9.">, rote, 2d edit. 
20 



1 D. O. M. 

Francisco Petrarch ee 

Parmensi Archidiacono. 

Parentibus proechris genere peranfiquo 

Ethices Chiistianu; scriptori eximio 

Romanae lingucs restitutori 

Etruscas principi 

Africse ob carmen hac in urbe peraclum regibus accito 

S. P. a. R. laurea donato. 

Tanti Viri 

Juvenilium juvenis seniliuni s','ne\ 

Studiosissimus 

Comes Nicolaus Canonicus Cicogn-arus 

Marmorea proxiraa ara cxcitata. 

Ibique condito 

Divae Januariee cruciito corpore 

H. M. P. 

Suftectum 

Sed infra meritum Francisci sepulchro 

Summa hac m a>de effeiri mandaniis 

Si Parma; occumberet 

Extcra morte heu nbbis erepti. 

2 La vita del Tasso, lib. iii. p. 284. torn, u edit isereamw 

1790. 



14 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



we examine the whole anecdote as reported by Olivet.' | 
The sentence pronounced against him by Bohours 2 is 
recorded only to the confusion of the critic, whose pa- 
Unodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, and 
would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition which 
the Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan academy, 
A-ho degraded Tasso from all competition with Ariosto, 
oelow Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such opposition 
must also, in some measure, be laid to the charge of 
Alphonso, and the court of Ferrara. For Leonard Sal- 
viati, the principal and nearly the sole origin of this 
attack, was, there can be no doubt, ^ influenced by a 
hope to acquire the favour of the House of Este : an 
object which he thought attainable by exalting the repu- 
tation of a native poet at the expense of a rival, then a 
prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Salviati 
must serve to show the cotemporary opinion as to the 
nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and will fill up the 
measure of our indignation at the tyrant jailor.* In 
fact, the antagonist of Tasso w^as not disappointed in the 
reception given to his criticism ; he was called to the 
court of Ferrara, where, having endeavoured to heighten 
his cbims to favour, by panegyrics on the family of his 
sovereign,^ he was in his turn abandoned, and expired 
in neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans 
was brought to a close in six years after the commence- 
ment of the controversy ; and if the academy owed its 
first renown to having almost opened with such a para- 
dox,s it is probable that, on the other hand, the care 
of his reputation alleviated rather than aggravated tlie 
imprisonment of the injured poet. The defence of his 
father and of himself, for both were involved in the 
censure of Salviati, found employment for many of his 
solitary hours, and the captive could have been but little 
embarrassed to replv to accusations, where, amongst 
otlier delinquencies, he was charged with invidiously 
omitting, in his comparison between France and Italy, 
to masce any mention of the cupola of St. Maria del 
Fiore at Florence.'' The late biographer of Ariosto 
seems as if willing to renew the controversy by doubting 
the interpretation of Tasso's self-estimation,® related 



1 Histoire de TAcademie Francaise, depuis 1652 jusqu'si 
1700, par I'abbe d'Olivet, p. 181. edit. Amsterdam, 1730. 
"Mais, ensuite, vcnant k Tusago qu'il a fait de ses talens, 
j'aurais montr6 que le bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui do- 
mine chez lui," p. 182. Boileau said he had not changed his 
opinion : " J'en aisi peu change, dit-il," etc. p. 181. 

2 La maniere de bien penser dans los cuvrages de I'esprit, 
sec. dial. p. 89. edit. 1692. Philanthes is for Tasso, and says, 
in the outset, "de tous les beaux c-sprits que I'ltalie a portes, 
le Tasse est peut-etre celui qui pense lo plus noblement." 
But Bohours seems to speak in Eudoxus, who closes with 
the absurd comparison, "Faites valoire le Tasse tant qu'il 
vous plaira, je m'en tiens pour moi k Virgile," etc. ib. p. 102. 

3 La Vita, etc. lib. iii. p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader 
may see an account of tne opposition of the Crusca to Tasso 
In Dr. Black, Life, etc. cap. xvii. vol. ii 

4 For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso 
*vas neither more nor less than a prisoner of state, the reader 
is referred to " Historical Illustrations of Uie IVth Canto of 
Chilcle Harold," p. 5, and following. 

•T Orazioni funebri. . . . Delia lodi di Don Luigi Cardinal 
d'Esto . . . Deile lodi di Donno Alfonzo d'Este. See La 
Vita, lib. iii. pag. 117. 

6 It was founded in 15^, and the Cruscan answer to Pel- 
legnnors Caraffa or epica poesia, was published in 1584. 

7 "Ciitanto pole sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessima 
-olonti contro alia nazion Fiorentana." La Vita, lib. iii. pp 
•»r '-18. torn, ii 

,"< La Vitatii M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall' Abate Giro lamo 
liarufTaldi giuniore, etc., Ferrara, 1807. lib. iii. page 262, 
*!e HistoKcaJ Illustrations, etc. p. 26. 



in Scrassi's life of the poet. ButTiraboschi had beforu 
laid that rivalry at rest,* by showing, that between 
Ariosto and Tasso it is not a question of comparison, 
but of preference. 

Note 19. Stanza xli. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
Thp iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves. 
Beiorethe remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
Benedictine church to the Hbrary of Ferrara, his bust, 
which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, 
and a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event 
has been recorded by a writer of the last century.^ The 
transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6lh of June, 1801, 
was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- 
lived Italian Republic, and to consecrate the memory of 
the ceremon}', the once fame us fallen Intrepidi were 
revived and re-formed in the Ailostean academy. The 
large public place through which the procession paraded 
was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. The 
author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the Ho- 
mer, not of Italy, but Ferrara.^ The mother of Ari- 
osto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was 
born is carefully distinguished by a tablet with these 
words : " Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il giorno 8 di 
Settembre deW anno 1474." But the Ferrarese make 
hght of the accident by which their poet was bom 
abroad, and claim him exclusively for their own. They 
possess his bones, they show liis arm-chair, and his 
ink-stand, and his autographs. 

" hie illius arma. 

Hie currus fuit " 

The house where he lived, the room where he died, are 
designated by his own replaced memorial,* and by a 
recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jeedous of 
their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from 
a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint is not 
unkno\'iTi to them, ventured to degrade their soil and 
climate to a Boeotian incapacity for aU spiritual produc- 
tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the 
detraction, and this supplement to Baretti's Memoirs 
of the illustrious FeiTarese, has been considered a tri- 
umphant reply to the " Quadro Storico Statistico dell' 
Alta Italia." 

Note 20. Stanza xli. 
For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel,^ and the white 
vine,^ were amongst the most approved preservatives 
against lightning : Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Cae- 
sar the second,'^ and Tiberius never failed to wear a 
wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thunder- 
storm.® These superstitions may be received without a 



1 Storia della Lett., etc. lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. p. 1220 
sect. 4. 

2 "Mi raccontarono que' monaci, ch' essendo caduto un 
fulmine nella loro chiesa schianto esso dalle tempie !a corona 
di lauro a quell' immortale poeta." Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii. 
p. 17(). ed. Milano, 1802; lettera al Signor Guido Savini Ar- 
cifisiocritico, sull' indole di un fulmine caduto in Drcsda 1' 
anno 17.59. 

3 "Appassionato ammiratore ed invitto apologista dell' 
Omero Ferrarese." The title was first given by Tasso, and 
is quoted to the confusion of the Tassisti, lib. iii. pp. 262 
265. La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, etc. 

4 " Parva, sed apta mihi, scd nulli obnoxia, sed non 
Sordida, parta meo sed tamen are dr^mus." 

5 Aquila, vitulus marinus, et laurus. fulmina non fenun'm 
Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ii. cap. Iv. 

6 Columella, lib. x. 

7 Sucton. in Vit. August, cap. xc 

8 Id. in Vii. Tiberii, cap. bdx. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



11 



sneer in a country where the magical properties of the 
hazei-twig have not lost all their credit ; and perhaps the 
reader may not be much surprised to find that a com- 
mentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely 
'.o disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- 
rius, by mentioning that, a few years before he wrote, 
a laurel was actually struck by Ughtning at Rome. 

Note 21. Stanza xli. 
Know that the lightning sanctifies below. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held 
«;acred, and the memory of the accident was preserved 
by a puteal, or altar, resembUng the mouth of a well, 
with a little chapel covering the cavity supposed to be 
made by the thimderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons 
struck dead were thought to be incorruptible j^ and a 
stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the 
man so distinguished by Heaven.^ 

Those killed by hghtning were wrapped in a white 
garment, aud buried where they fell. The superstition 
was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the 
Lombards believed in the omens furnished by lightning, 
and a Christian priest confesses that by a diabolical skill 
in ii;terpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke 
of Turin, an event which came to pass, and gave him a 
quetia and a crown.* There was, however, something 
equivocal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants of 
R(;me did not always consider propitious ; and as the 
fears are likely to last longer than the consolations of 
superstition, it is not strange that the Romans of the age 
of Leo X. should have been so much terrified at some 
misinterpreted storms as to require the exhortations of 
a scholar, who arraj'ed all the learning on thunder and 
lightning to prove the omen favourable ; beginning with 
the flash which struck the walls of Vehtrae, and includ- 
ing that which played upon a gate at Florence, and 
foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens.* 

Note 22. Stanza kii. 
Italia, oh Italia, etc. 
The two stanzas, XLIL and XLIIL, are, with the ex- 
ception of a line or two, a translation of the famous 
sonnet of Filicaja: 

" Italia, Italia, O tu cui fee la sorte." 

Note 23. Stanza xliv. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 

The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. 

The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, 

the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and 

now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by 

sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. 

"On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from 
jEgina towards Megara, I began to contemplate the 
prospect of the countries around me : jEgina was behind, 
iMegara before me ;, Piraeus on the right, Corinth on the 
left ; all which towns, once famous and flourishing, now 
tie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon this 
sight, I could not but think presently within myself. 



Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and vex ourselves if 
any of our friends happen to die or be killed, whos^ 
life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many nojie 
cities lie here exposed before me in one view." ' 
Note 24. Stanza xlvi. 

-and we pass 



The skeleton of her Titanic form. 

It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hu 

upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation, 

" Ut nunc onrni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, insta; 

gigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi."^ 

Note 25. Stanza xlLx. 

There, too, the goddess loves in stone. 

The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the ob- 
ject with the description proves, not only the correct- 
ness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of though^ 
and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination ol 
the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be de- 
duced from another hint in the same episode of Musi- 
dora ; for Thomson's notion of the privileges of favoured 
love must have been either very primitive, or rather 
deficient in delicacy, when he made his grateful nympii 
inform her discreet Damon that in some happier mo- 
ment he might perhaps be the companion of her bath: 
"The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the 
life of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine 
gallerj' without a word on the JVhetter. It seems strange 
that the character of that disputed statue should not be 
entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one who 
has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the Basihca 
of St. Paul without the walls, at Rome, where the whole 
group of the fable of Marsyas is seen in tolerable pre- 
servation ; and the Scythian slave whetting the knife 
is represented exactly in the same position as this 
celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked • but 
it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to suppose 
the knife in tlie hand of the Florentine statue an in- 
strument for shaving, wliich it must be, if, as Lanzj 
supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Ju- 
lius Caesar. Winkelmann, illustrating a bas-relief of 
the same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agos- 
tini, and his authority might have been thought con- 
clusive, even if the rcoemblance did not strike the most 
careless observer.^ 

Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection 
is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- 
mented upon by Mr. Gibbon.'^ Our historian found 
some difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- 
tion : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has 
been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- 
cognised to be a forgery. 

Note 2G. Stanza li. 



1 Note 2. pag. 409. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. 

2 Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terrse motu et Fulminibus, Hb. 
i, cap. xi. 

3 OvSeis K£pavv(j)6eig urifxos icTi, oQev kol ij ^ebg 
rifxaTat. Plut. Sympos., vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut sup. 

4 Pauli Diaconi, de gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. xiv. fo. 
iv. edit. Taurin. 1527. 

5 1. P. Va'eriani, de fulminum significationibus declamatio, 
ap. Grfpv. Antiq. Horn. torn. v. p. 593. The declamation is 
iddressed to .TiiUan of Medics. 



-his eyes to thee upturn. 



Feeding on thy'sweet cheek. 
•Atque oculos pascatuterque sues." — Ovid. Amor. lib. n 



1 Dr. Middleton— History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero 
sect. vii. pag. 371, vol. ii. 

2 De fortuna; varietute urbis RomfE et Oe minis ejusdeni 
descriptio, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. torn. i. pag. 501. 

3 See Monim. Ant. ined. par. i. cap. xvii. n. xlii. pag. 50 
and Storia delle arti, etc. lib. xi. cap. i, tom. ii. p. 314. not 1^ 

4 Nomina gentesque Antiquaa Italia;, p. 204. ediu tjci 



116 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 27. Stanza liv. 
Ip Santa Croce's holy precincts lie. 
This name will recall the memory, not only of those 
A hose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the 
centre of pi'grimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her 
whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, 
and whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. 
CoRixNA is no more ; and with her should expire the 
fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too daz- 
zling or too dark a cloud round the march of genius, 
and forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. 
We have her picture embellished or distorted, as friend- 
ship or detraction has held the pencil : the impartial 
portrait was hardly to be expected from a contempo- 
rary. The immediate voice of her survivors will, it is 
probable, be far from affording a just estimate of her 
singular capacity. The gallantr}', the love of wonder, 
and the hope of associated fame, which blunted the 
edge of censure, must cease to exist. — The dead have 
no sex ; they can surprise by no new miracles ; they 
can confer no privilege: Corinna has ceased to be a 
woman — she is only an author : and it may be foreseen 
that many will repay themselves for former complai- 
sance, by a severity to which the extravagance of pre- 
vious praises may perhaps give the colour of truth. 
The latest posterity, for to the latest posterity they will 
assuredly descend, will have to pronounce upon her 
various productions ; and the longer the vista through 
which they are seen, the more accurately minute will 
be the object, the more certain the justice of the deci- 
sion. She will enter into that existence in which the 
great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, 
associated in a world of their own, and from that su- 
perior sphere shed their eternal influence for the con- 
trol and consolation of mankind. But the individual 
will gradually disappear as the author is more dis- 
tinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those whom 
the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospitality, 
attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, should 
rescue from oblivion those virtues which, although 
they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more fre- 
quently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of 
{)rivate life. Some one should be found to portray 
the unaffected graces with which she adorned those 
dearer relationships, the performance of whose duties 
is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than 
seen in the outward management, of family inter- 
course ; and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of 
genuine affection to quahfy for the eye of an inditTer- 
ent spectator. Some one should be found, not to 
celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and 
always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the 
ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only 
to give fresh animation to those around her. The mo- 
ther tenderly affectionate and tenderly beloved, the 
friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the 
charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten 
by those whom she cherished, protected, and fed. Her 
loss will be mourned the most where she was known 
*}i^ host ; and, to the sorrows of very many friends and 
"jorp depondants, may be offered the disinterested re- 
Diet of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of 
tlie Leman lake, leceived his chief satisfaction from 
contemplating the engaging qualities of the incompa- 
raoi6 Corinna. 



Note 28. Stanza liv. 



-here repose 



Angelo's, Alfieri's bones. 

Alfieri is the great name of this agit. The Italians, 
without waiting for the hundred years, consider him as 
" a poet good in law." — His meir.oiy is the more dear 
to them because he is the bard of freedom ; and because, 
as such, his tragedies can receive no countenance from 
any of their sovereigns. They are but very seldom, and 
but very few of them, allowed to be acted. It was ob- 
served by Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions 
and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
theatre,' In the autumn of 1816, a celebrated improv- 
visatore exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of Mi- 
laji. The reading of the theses handed in for the sub- 
jects of his poetry was received by a very numerous ai* 
dience, for the most part in silence, or with laughter • 
but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, ex- 
claimed, " 2%e apotheosis of Victor Aljieri^^'' the whole 
theatre burst into a shout, and the applause was con- 
tinued for some moments. The lot did not faD on Al- 
fieri ; and the Signer Sgricci had to pour forth hiS ex- 
temporary commonplaces on the bombardment of Al- 
giers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite 
so much as might be thought from a first view of the 
ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look 
at the papers beforehand, but, in case of any prudential 
after- thought, steps in to correct the blindness of 
-chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri was received 
with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because it was 
conjectured there would be no opportunity of carrying 
it into effect. 

Note 29. Stanza liv. 
Here ftlachiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose 

The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- 
tions which so often leaves us uncertain whether the 
structure before us is an actual depository, or a ceno- 
taph, or a simple memorial not of death but life, has 
given to the tomb of Machiavelli no information as to 
the place or time of the birth or death, tlie age or pa- 
rentage, of the historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name should 
not have been put above the. sentence which alludes 
to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which 
have passed the name of Machiavelli into an epithet 
proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at Florence. His 
memory was persecuted as his life had been for an at- 
tachment to liberty, incompatible with the new system 
of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free gov- 
ernments of Italy. He was put to the torture for be- 
ing a " libertine,'''' that is, for wishing to restore the re- 
public of Florence ; and such are the undying efforts 



1 The free exDression of their honest sentiments survived 
their liherties. Titus, the friend of Antony, presented them 
with eames in the ilieatre of Pompey. They did not suffer the 
brilliancy of the spectacle to eftace from their memory that the 
man who furnished th.em wilh the entertainment had mur- 
dered the son of Pompey. They drove him from the theatre 
with curses. The moral sense of a populace, spontaneously 
expressed, is never wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumvirs 
joined in the execration of the citizens, by shoutinsj round the 
chariots of Lepidus arid Plancus, who had proscribed t-heii 
brothers, De Germanis nun de Gallis duo triumvhant Con- 
sides ; a sayin? worth a record, were it nothing but a good 
pun. C. V(;ll. Paterculi Hist. lib. ii. cap. Ixxix, pajj. 7L. edit 
Elzevir. 1G.'39. Ibid. lib. ii. cap. ixxvii 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



in 



vf those who are interested m the perversion not only 
of the nature of actions, but the meaning of words, 
t!iat what was once patriotism, has by degrees come to 
signify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the old 
meaning of "liberality," which is now another word for 
treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the au- 
thor of the Prince, as being a pander to t}Tanny ; and 
to think that the inquisition would condemn his work 
for such a delinquency. The fact is, ttiat Machiavelli, 
as is usual with those against whom no crime can be 
proved, was suspected of and charged v> ith atheism ; 
and the first and last most violent opposers of the Prince 
were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the inqui- 
sition " benche fosse tardo,''' to prohibit the treatise, 
and the other quahfied the secretary of the Florentine 
republic as no better than a fool. The father Possevin 
was proved never to have read the book, and the father 
Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- 
ever, that such critics must have objected not to the 
slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency 
of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests 
of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The 
Jesuits are re-estabhshed in Italy, and the last chapter 
of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- 
tion, from those who are employed once more in 
moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to 
receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
bears for title, " Esortazione aliberare la Italia dai Bar- 
bari," and concludes with a lilertine excitement to the 
future redemption of Italy. " D^on si deve adunque 
lasciar passare questa occasione, acciocchh la Italia 
vegga dopo tanto tempo apparire un suo redentore. 
JVh posso esprimere con qual amore ei fusse ricevuto in 
tutte quelle provincie, che hanno patito per queste il- 
tuvioni esteme, con qual sete di vendetta, con che os- 
linata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte se li serre- 
rebcTw ? Quali populi li negherehbeno la obhedienza ? 
Quale Italiano li negherehbe V ossequio ? ad ognuno 

PUZZA QUESTO BARBARO DOMINIC." ' 

Note 30. Stanza Ivii. 
Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar. 
Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He 
fouofjit in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, 
and once prior of the republic. When the party of 
diaries of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 
absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII. and was 
condemned Jo two years' banishment, and to a fine of 
eight thousand lire ; on the non-payment of which he 
was further punished by the sequestration of all his 
propertv. The republic, however, was rot content with 
this satisfaction, for in 1772 was discovered in the 
archives at Florence a sentence in which Dante is the 
eleventh of a hst of -fifteen condemned in 1302 to be 
Ournt alive ; Talis perveniens igne comhuratur sic quod 
woriatur. The pretext for this judgment was a proof 
of unfair barter, extortions, and illicit gains: Baracte- 
riarum iniquarum, extorsionum, et illiciiorum lucro- 
ncm,- and with such an accusation it is not strange that 
Dante should have always protested his innocence, and 



1 II Prinoipedi Niccolo Machiavelli, etc., con la prefazione 
e lo note istoriche e politiche di M. Amelot de la Honssaye, e 
['esamee confutazione dell' opera.... Cosmcpoli, 1769. 

2 Storia della Lett. Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par, 2. pag. 4__. 
Tirabo^chi is incorrect : the dates of the three decrees against 
Dante are A. D. 1302, 1314, and 1316 

o 



the injustice of his fellow-citizelis. His appeal to Flo- 
rence v.as accompanied by another to the Emperot 
Henry, and the death of that sovereign, in 1313, ua 
the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. Ht- 
had before lingered near Tuscany, with hopes of recall 
then travelled mto the north of Italy, where Verona 
had to boast of his longest residence, and he finally 
settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but no? 
constant abode until his death. The refusal of the Ve- 
netians to grant him a public audience, on the part of 
Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is said to have 
been the principal cause of this event, which happened 
in 1321. He was buried ("in sacra minorum asde,") 
at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected 
by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, pretor 
for that republic which had refused to hear him, again 
restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a 
more magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the 
expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The 
offence or misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a 
defeated party, and, as his least favourable biographers 
allege against him, too great a freedom of speech and 
haughtiness of manner. But the next age paid honours 
almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, having ui 
vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, 
cro\'i'ned his image in a church, ^ and his picture is stil. 
one of the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, 
they raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, not 
being able to dispute about his own birth, contendeo 
for that of his great poem, and the Florentines thought 
it for their honour to prove that he had finished the 
seventh Canto, before they drove him from his native 
city. Fift3^-one years after his death, they endowed a 
professional chair for the expounding of his verses, anc 
Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. 
The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, and the 
commentators, if they performed but little service to 
literature, augmented the veneration which beheld a 
sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic 
muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered to 
have been distinguished above those of ordinary men ; 
the author of the Decameron, his earUest biographer, 
relates that his mother was warned in a dream of the 
importance of her pregnancy; and it was found, by 
others, that at ten years of age he had manifested his 
precocious passion for that Avisdom or theology which, 
under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had 
been recognised as a mere mortal production, and at 
the distance of two centuries, when criticism and com- 
petition had sobered the judgment of ItaHans, Dante 
was seriously declared superior to Homer,^ and though 
the preference appeared to some casuists " a heretical 
blasphemy vv'orthy of the flames," the contest was vig- 
orously maintained for nearly fifty years. In later 
times, it was made a question which of the lords of 
Verona could boast of having patronized him,' and the 
jealous scepticism of one writer would not allow Ra 
venna the undoubted possession of his bones. Even 
the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to beheve that the 



1 So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation only an 
allogory. See Storia, etc., ut sup. p. 453. 

2 By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy continued 
from 1570 to 1616. See Storia, etc., torn. vii. lib. \:\. par lii 
p. 1280. 

3 Gio. Jacopo Dionisi canonico di Verona. Serie di Anew 
doti, n. 2. See Storia, etc,, torn. v. lib. i. pai. p. 24. 



118 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



poet had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of 
Galileo. Like the <freat originals of other nations, his 
popularity has not always maintained the same level. 
The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a 
model and a study ; and BettincUi one day rebuked his 
pupil JNIonti, for poring over the harsh and obsolete 
extravagancies of the Commedia. The present genera- 
tion, having recovered from the Gallic idolatries of 
Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient worship, and the 
Danleggaire of the northern Italians is thought even 
nidiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans- 
There is still much curious information relative to 
the life and writings of this great poet, which has not 
as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but the cele- 
brated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect; 
and it is not to be regretted that this national work 
has been reserved for one so devoted to his country 
and the cause of truth. 

Note 31. Stanza Ivii. 

Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 

Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 

Proscribed, etc. 
The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb, if he was not 
buried, at Liternum, wliither he had retired to volun- 
tary banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, 
and the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Patria, 
having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, 
an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly 
lived there. • 

In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 

Era '1 grand' uonio che d'Africa s'appella 

Perche prima col ferro al vivo apprilla. 2 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to 
republics ; and it seems to be forgotten, that, for one 
instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred 
examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a 
people have often repented — a monarch seldom or 
never. Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, 
a short story may show the difference between even 
an aristocracy and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Porto- 
longo, and many j-ears afterwards in the more decisive 
action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the 
Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The 
Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme 
tribunal was content with the sentence of imprison- 
ment. Whilst Pisani was suffering this unmerited dis- 
grace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital,' was, by 
the assistance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into 
the hands of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that 
disaster, the great bell of St. Mark's tower tolled to 
arms, and the people and the soldiery of the galleys 
were summoned to the repulse of the approaching 
enemy ; but they protested they would not move a 
Btep, unless Pisani were liberated, and placed at their 
head. The great council was instantly assembled: the 
prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea 
Contarini, informed him of the dem.ands of the people 
and the necessities of the state, whose only hope of 
satfty was reposed on his efforts, and who implored 
Lirr to foroive the indignities he had endured in her 



service. " I have submitted," replied the magnanimous 
republican, " I have submitted to your deliberations 
without complaint ; I have supported patiently the pains 
of imprisonment, for they were inflicted at your com- 
mand : this is no time to inquire w^hether I deserved 
them — the good of the republic may have seemed to 
require it, and that which the republic resolves is always 
resolved wisely. Behold me ready to lay down my lite 
for the preservation of my country." Pisani was ap- 
pointed generalissimo, and, by his exertions, in conjurt; • 
tion with those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon re- 
covered the ascendanc}'' over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less vmjust to the:;' 
citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with 
the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the boay 
ed equality before the laws, which an ancient GreeK 
writer ' considered the great distinctive mark between 
his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights 
of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal 
scope of the old democracies. The world may have not 
yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, 
in which the distinction bet^veen the liberty of former 
states, and the signification attached to that word by the 
happier constitution of England, is ingeniously devel- 
oped. The Italians, however, when they had ceased to 
be free, still looked back with a sigh upon those times of 
turbulence, ^^hfcn every citizen might rise to a share of 
sovereign power, and have never been taught fully to 
appreciate the repose of a monarehy. Sperone Speroni, 
when Francis Maria II. Duke of Rovero proposed the 
question, "which was preferable, the repubUc or the 
principality — the perfect and not durable, or the less 
perfect and not so liable to change," replied, " that our 
happiness is to be measured by its quality, not by its 
duration ; and that he preferred to live for one day like 
a man, than for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, 
or a stone." This was thought, and called, a mag 
nificent answer, down to the last days of Italian ser 
vitude.2 

Note 32. Stanza Ivii. 



-and the crown 



1 "Vitam Litem! egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist, 
lib. xxxviii. Livy reports tha*. some said he was buried at 
liiternum, others at Rome. Ik cap. Iv. 

2 Trionfo della Castit». 

i See note to«tanza XIII. 



Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 

The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe 

trarch's short visit to their city, in 1350, to revoke the 

decree which confiscated the property of his father, 

who had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. 

His crown did not dazzle them ; but when, in the next 

year, they were in want of his assistance in the formation 

of their university, the}' repented of their injustice, .and 

Boccaccio was sent to Padua to entreat the laureat tc 

conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native 

country, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 

enjoy, with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all 

classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the oi> 

tion of the book, and the science he might condescend 

to expound: they called him the glory of his countrj. 

who was dear, and would be dearer to them ; and they 

added, that if there was any thing unpleasing in thei. 

letter, he ought to return amongst them, were it only to 



1 The Greek boasted that he was i(Tovo[ioS'—See the Ia*t 
chapter of the first book of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 

2 " E intorno alia magnijica risposta,'" etc. Serassi, V'iJ 
del Tasso, ub. iii. pag. 149. torn. ii. edit. 2, Bergaino. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



IIU 



correct t!ieir style. ^ Petrarch seemed at first to listen to 
the flattery and to the entreaties of his friend, but he did 
not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 

Note 33. Stanza Iviii. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 

His dust. 
Boccaccio was buried m (he church of St. Michael and 
St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsa, 
ivhich was by some supposed the place of his birth. 
There he passed the latter part of his life in a course of 
laborious study, which shortened his existence ; and 
there might his ashes have been secure, if not of honour, 
at least of repose. But the "hysena bigots" of Certaldo 
tore up the tombstone of Boccaccio, and ejected it from 
the holy precints of St. Michael and St. James. The 
occasion, and, it maybe hoped, the excuse of this eject- 
ment, was tiie making of a new floor for the church : 
but the fact is, that the tombstone was taken up and 
thrown aside at the bottom of the building. Ignorance 
may share the sin with bigotry. It would be painful to 
relate such an exception to the devotion of the Italians 
for their great names, could it not be accompanied by a 
trait more honourably conformable to the general char- 
acter of the nation. The principal person of the district, 
the last branch of the house of Medicis, afforded that 
protection to the memory of the insulted dead %vhich 
her best ancestors had dispensed upon all cotemporary 
merit. The Marchioness Lenzoni rescued the tombstone 
of Boccaccio from the neglect in which it had some time 
lain, and found for it an honourable elevation in her own 
mansion. She has done more : the house in which the 
poet lived has been as little respected as his tomb, and 
is faUing to ruin over the head of one indifferent to the 
name of its former tenant. It consists of two or three 
little chambers, and a low tower, on which Cosmo II. 
affixed an inscription. This house she has taken meas- 
ures to purchase, and proposes to devote to it that care 
and consideration which are attached to the cradle and 
to the roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boc- 
caccio ; but the man who exhausted his little patrimony 
in the acquirement of learning, who was amongst the 
first, if not the first, to allure the science and the poetry 
of Greece to the bosom of Italy : — who not only invented 
a new style, out founded, or certainly fiixed, a new lan- 
guage ; who, besides the esteem of every polite court of 
Europe, was thought worthy of employment by the pre- 
dominant republic of his own country, and, what is 
more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the life 
of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died in the 
pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might have found 
more consideration than he has met with from the 
priest of Certaldo, and from a late English traveller, who 
strikes off" his portrait as an odious, contemptible, li- 
centious writer, whose impure remains should be suf- 
fered to rot without a record.^ That English traveller, 

1 " Accingiti innoltre. so ci e lecito ancor Tesorlarti, a com- 
pire 1' immortal tua Africfi.... Se ti ayvieno d'incontrare nel 
nostro stile cosa clie ti dispiarcia, cib debb' essere un aliro 
mofivo ad esaiKiire i desiderj della tua patria." Storia della 
Ijott. Ifal. tom. V, par. i. lib. i. pag. 76. 

2 Classical Tour, cap. ix. vol. 11. p. 355. edit. 3d. " Of 
l?occnccio, the modern Petroniiis, we say nothing: the abuse 
of genius is more odious and n)ore contemptible than its alD- 
sence; and it imports little where the inipure remains of a h- 
I'entious author are consigned to their kindred dust. For the 
game reason the traveler may pass unnoticed the tomb of the 
maiiauaut Aretin.o." 



unfortunately for those who have to deplore the loss of 
a very amiable person, is beyond all criticism ; but the 
mortality which did not protect Boccaccio from Mr. 
Eustace, must not defend Mr. Eustace from the impa: ■ 
tial judgment of his successors. Death may canonize 
his virtues, not his errors ; and it may be modestly pro- 
nounced that he transgressed, not only as an author, 
but as a man, when he evoked the shade of Boccaccio 
in company with that of Aretino, amidst the sepulchres 
of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. As 
far as respects 

" II flaa-ello dc' Principi. 
II divin Pictro Aretino," 

*it is of little import what censure is passed upon a cox- 
comb who owes his present existence to the above bur- 
lesque character given to him by the poet whose amber 
has preserved many other grubs and worms : but to 
classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to excom- 
municate his very ashes, must of itself make us doubt 
of the qualification of the classical tourist for writing 
upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any other literature ; for 
ignorance oh one point may incapacitate an author 
merely for that particular topic, but subjection to a pro- 
fessional prejudice must render him an unsafe directoi 
on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be 
made what is vulgarly called " a case of conscience," 
and this poor excuse is all that can be offered for the 
priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical Tour. 
It would have answered the purpose to confine the cen- 
sure to the novels of Boccaccio, and gratitude to that 
source which supplied the muse of Dryden with her last 
and most harmonious numbers, might perhaj)s have re- 
stricted that censure to the objectionable qualities of 
the hundred tales. At any rate, the repentance of Boc- 
caccio might have arrested his exhumation, and it should 
have been recollected and told, that in his old age be 
wrote a letter entreating his friend to discourage the 
reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and 
for the sake of the author, who would not have an apolo- 
gist always at hand to state in his excuse that he wrote it 
when young, and at the command of his superiors. ' It 
is neither the licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil 
propensities of the reader, which have given to the De- 
cameron alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, a perpet- 
ual popularity. The establishment of a new and delight- 
ful dialect conferred an immortality on the works in 
which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, 
for the same reason, fated to survive his self-admirea 
Africa, the '■'■favourite of kings.'''' The invariable traits 
of nature and feeling, with which the novels, as well as 
the verses, abound, have, doubtless, been the chief source 
of the foreign celebrity of both authors ; hut Boccaccio, 
as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than 
Petrarch is to be regarded in no other hght than as the 



This dubious phrase is hardly enough to save the tourist 
from the suspicion of another blunder respecting the buriai- 
place of Aretino, whose tomb was in the church of St. Luko 
at Venice, and gave rise to the famous controversy of which 
some notice is taken in Bayle. Now the words of Mr. Eus- 
tace would lead us to think the tomb was at Florence, or at 
least was to be somewhere recognised. Whether the nscrip 
tion so much disputed was ever written on the tomr- cannoJ 
now be decided, for all .uemorial of this author has disap- 
peared from the church of St. Luke, which is now changed 
into a lamp warehouse. 

1 "Non enlm ubique est, qui in excusationem meani cop 
snrgens dicat, juvcnis scripsit, et majoris coactus imoeria. 
The letter was addressed to Maghinard of Cavalcanti, mar 
shal of the kingdom of Sicily. See Tiraboschi Storia f»ts 
tom. V. par. ii. lib. iii. pag. 525. ed. Ven. 171)5. 



10 



BYRONtS WORKS. 



lover of Laura. Even, however, had the father of the 
Tuscan prose been known only as the author of the 
Decameron, a considerate writer would have been cau- 
tious to pronounce a sentence irreconcileable with the 
unerring voice of many ages and nations. An irrevoca- 
ble vaUie has never been stamped upon any work solely 
recommended bj' impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, which 
beaan at a very early period, was the choice of his scan- 
dalous personages in the cloisters as well as the courts ; 
out the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures 

50 unjustly charged upon Queen Theodehnd.a, whilst the 
priestliood cried shame upon the debauches drawn from 
the convent and the hermitage ; and, most probably, for 
the opposite reason, namely, that the picture was faithful 
to the life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts 
usefully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of 
rogues and laymen. Ser Ciapdelletto and Marcellinus 
are cited with applause even by the decent Muratori.' 
The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that 
a new edition of the novels was proposed, of which the 
expurgation consisted in omitting the words "monk" 
and "nun," and tacking the inimorahties to other 
names. The literary history of Italy particularizes no 
such edition ; but it was not long before the whole of 
Europe had but one opinion of the Decameron ; and the 
absolution of the author seems to have been a point set- 
tled at least a hundred years ago : " On se ferait siffler 

51 i'on pretendait convainere Boccace de n'avoir pas ete 
^onnete homme, puisqu'il a faitle Decameron." So said 
one of the best men, and perhaps the best critic, that 
ever lived — the very martyr to impartiality.^ But as this 
infotmation, that in the beginning of the last century 
one would have been hooted at for pretending that Boc- 
caccio was not a good man, may seem to come from 
one of those enemies who are to be suspected, even 
nhen they make us a present of truti-, a more accept- 
able contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, 
and muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words 
from the righteous, the patriotic contemporary, wno 
thought one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a 
Latin version from his own pen. " / have remarked 
e/seit'/iere," says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, " that 
the book itself has been worried by certain dogs, but 
stoutly defended by your staff and voice. Nor was I 
astonished, for I have had -proof of the vigour of your 
mind, and I know you have fallen on that unaccom- 
modating incapable race of mortals who, whatever they 
either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to 
rejirehend in others, and on those occasions only put on a 
show of learning and eloquence, but otherwise are entirely 
dumb.^ 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not 
resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who 
did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose 
the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 



1 Dissertazionisopraleantichitkltalianc. Diss. Iviii. p. 253. 
turn. iii. edit. Milan, 1751. 

2 Rclaircisscment, etc. etc. p. 633. edit. Basle, 1741, in the 
Pupplemciit to Bayle's Dictionary. 

3 ' Animadverti alicnbi librum ipsum canum dentibus la- 
cessituin tuo tamen baculo egregie tuaquc voce defensum. 
N'ec miratus sum : nam ct vires ingenii tiii novi, ef scio exper- 
fiis es.<es hominum genus insolens et ignavum, qui, quicquid 
ipei vol nolunt, vel nesciunt, vel non possunt, in aiiis repre- 
lendunt; ad hoc unum docti et arguti, seH olineues ad reli- 
^u■d " Epjst Jean Boccatio. oi)p. torn. i. o. 540. edit. Basil. 



Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the 16tli 
centurj', erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the 
laureat, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio io 
the equal honours of Dante and Petrarch. 

Note 34. Stanza Ix. 
What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo, and 
expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only i.t 
the source; and it is in search of some memorial of the 
virtuous republicans of the famih', that we visit the 
church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, 
unfinished chaj)el in that church, designed for the mau- 
soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns 
and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of con- 
tempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst 
the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his 
Country, reconciles us to the name of IMedici.' It was 
very natural for Corinna^ to suppose that the statue 
raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de depositi, 
was intended for his great namesake ; but the magnifi- 
cent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half hidden 
in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates 
from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral 
peace which succeeded to the establishment of the reign- 
ing families in Italy, our own Sidney has given us a 
glowing, but a faithful picture. "Notwithstanding all 
the seditions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, 
the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and 
Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued populous, 
strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space of less than 
a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable reign of the 
Medices is thought to have destroyed nine parts in ten 
of the people of that province. Amongst other things 
it is remarkable, that when Philip the Second of Spain 
gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambassador 
then at Rome sent him word, that he had given away 
more than 650,000 subjects ; and it is not beheved there 
are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and terri- 
tory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, 
that were then good and populous, are in the like pro- 
portion diminished, and Florence more than any. 
When that city had been long troubled with seditions, 
tum.ults, and wars, for the most part unprosperou?, they 
still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII. 
of France, being admitted as a friend with his whole 
army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of 
Naples, thought to master them, the people taking arms 
struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to depart 
upon such conditions as they thought fit to impose. 
Machiavel reports, that, in that time, Florence alone, 
with the Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that 
city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a beU, bring 
together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas now that 
city, with all the others in that province, are brought to 
such despicable w^eakness, emptniess, povert}^, and base- 
ness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of their 
own prince, nor defend him or themselves if they were 
assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed 
or destroyed, and the best families sent to seek habita- 
tions in Venice, Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This 
IS not the effect of war or pestilence ; they enjoy a perfect 
peace, and suffer no other plague than the government 



1 Cosmus IMedices, Decreto Publico, Pater Patriee. 

2 Corinne, Liv. xviii. cap. iii. vol. iii. pa^e 24fi 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



121 



Ihey are under.' From the usurper Cosmo down to the 
'tnbecile Gaston, we look in vain for any of those unmixed 
quaUties which should raise a patriot to the command of 
his fellow-citizens. The Grand Dukes, and particularly 
the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a change in the 
luscan character, that the candid Florentines, in excuse 
tor some imjjerfections in the philanthropic system of 
t^eopold, are obliged to confess that the sovereign was the 
only liberal man in his dominions. Yet that excellent 
ince himself had no other notion of a national as- 
sembly, than of a body to represent the wants and 
wishes, not the will of the people. 

Note 35. Stanza Ixiii. 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away I 

'^ And such was their mutual animosity^ so intent 
were they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which 
overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, 
which turned the course of rapid streams, poured back 
the sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very moun- 
tains, was not felt by one of the combatants.''^- Such 
is the description of Livy. It may be doubted whether 
modern tactics would admit of such an abstraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mis- 
taken. The traveller from the village under Cortona to 
'asa di Piano, the next stage on the waj' to Rome, has, 
tor the first two or three miles, around him, but more 
particularly to the right, that flat land which Hannibal laid 
waste in order to induce the Consul Flaminius to move 
from Arezzo. On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge 
of hills, bending down towards the lake of Thrasimene, 
called by Livy "montes Cortonenses," and now named 
fhe Gualandra. These hills he approaches at Ossaja, a 
village which the itineraries pretend to have been so de- 
nominated from the bones found there : but there have 
been no bones found there, and the battle was fought on 
the other side of the hill. From Ossaja the road begins 
to rise a little, but does not pass into the roots of the 
mountains until the sixty-seventh mile-stone from Flo- 
rence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, and 
continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen 
below on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower close 
upon the water ; and the undulating hills partially covered 
vv'ith wood amongst which the road winds, sink by degrees 
into the marshes near to this tower. Lower than the 
road, down to the right amidst these woody hillocks, 
Hannibal placed his horse,' in the jaws of or rather above 
the pass, which was between the lake and the present 
road, and most probably close to Borghetto, just under 
the lowest of the " tumuli." ''^ On a summit to the left, 
above the road, is an old circular ruin which the peasants 
call " the Tower of Hannibal the Carthaginian." Arrived 
at the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 
view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he 
descends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale 
mclosed to the left and in front and behind him by the 
Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than 



1 On Government, chap. ii. sect. xxvi. pajreSOS. edit. 1751. 
Sidney is, together with Locke and Hoadley, one of Mr. 
Hume's " despicable'^ writers. 

2 "Tantusque fuit ardor animorum, adeo intentus pugnae 
animus, utcum terrae motum qui multarum urbium Italioe 
magnas partes prostravit, avertitque cursu rapido amnes, mare 
fluminibHS invexit, monies lapsu ingenti proruit, nemo pug- 
nantium senserit...." Tit. Liv. lib. xxu. cap. xii. 

3 " Equites ad ipsas fauces saltus, tumulis apte tegentibus, 
locat." Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. iv. 

4 " Ubi maxime montes Cortonenses Thrasimenus subit." 
Ibid. 

o2 21 



a semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake, 
which obliques to the right, and forms the chord of tliia 
mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from 
the plains of C ortona, nor appears to be so completely 
inclosed unless to one who is fairly v/ithin the hills. I^ 
then, indeed, appears " a place made as it were on pur- 
pose for a snare," '■Hocus insidiis natus.^'' Borghetto is 
then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass close to 
the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet at 
the opposite turn of the mountains than through the little 
town of Pasignano, which is pushed into the water by the 
foot of a high rocky acclivity. ' There is a woody emi- 
nence branching down from the mountains into the up- 
per end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and 
on this stands a white village called Torre. Polybius seems 
to allude to this eminence as the one on which Hannibal 
encamped and drew out his heavy-armed Africans and 
Spaniards in a conspicuous position.^ From this spot he 
despatched his Balearic and light-armed troops round 
through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to arrive 
unseen, and form an ambush amongst the broken acch- 
vities which the road now jasses, and to be ready to act 
upon the left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse 
shut up the pass behind. Flam.inius came to the lake 
near Borghetto at sunset ; and, w' thout sending any spies 
before him, marched through the pass the next morning 
before tlie day had quite broken, so that he perceived 
nothing of the horse and light troops above and about 
him, and saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians in 
front on the hill of Torre.' The consul began to draw 
out his army in the flat, and in the mean time the horse 
in ambush occupied the pass behn.d him at Borghetto. 
Thus the Romans were completely inclosed, having the 
lake on the right, the main army on the hill of Torre in 
front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed on 
their left flank, and being prevented from receding by 
the cavalry, who, the farther they advai^ced, stopped up 
all the outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the lake 
now spread itself over the army of the consul, but the 
high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different 
corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the 
order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and moved 
down from his post on the height. At the same moment 
all his troops on the eminences behind and in the flank 
of Flaminius, rushed forward as it were with one accord 
into the plain. The Romans, who were forming their 
array in the mist, suddenly heard the shouts of the 
enemy amongst them, on every side, and, before they 
could fall into their ranks, or draw their swords, or see 
by whom they were attacked, felt at once that they were 
surrounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua 
landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of 
these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and 
this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The 
second, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called 
" the bloody rivulet," and the peasants point out an 
open spot to the left between the " Sanguinetto" and 



1 "Inde colles assurgunt." Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap iv. 

2 Ibv yi£V Kara 7r/)d(7a)-o» ?//j -opeiag \6(pov avrdi 
KareXaSzTO, Kai Tovi Ai6vas Kal Tovg \Pnpa? ^X^v <V 
avTOv imrear paro-tSeva-E. Hist. lib. iii. cap. 83. The ao 
comit in Polybius is not so easily reconcileable with preeen. 
appearances as that in Livy; he talks of hills to the righl 
and left of the pass and valk-y : but when Flaminius entered 
he had the lake at the right of both. 

3 "A tergo etsuper capvjtdecepereinsidi<E." Tit Liv ^^ 



122 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the hills, which, they say, was the principal scene of 
slaughter. The other part of the plain is covered with 
Ihick-set olive trees in corn-grounds, and is nowhere 
quite level except near the edge of the lake. It is, 
mdeed, most probable that the battle was fought near 
Uus end of the valley, for the sLx thousand Romans 
who, at the beginning of the action, broke through the 
enemy, escaped to tlie summit of an eminence which 
must have been in this quarter, otherwise they would 
have had to traverse the whole plain, and to pierce 
through the main army of Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but 
the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general 
dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon 
the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, 
but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto and the passes 
of the Gualandra, were strewed with dead. Near some 
old walls on a bleak ridge to the left above the rivulet, 
many human bones have been repeatedly found, and 
this has confirmed the pretensions and the name of the 
'•stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north some 
painter is the usual genius of the place, and the foreign 
Julie Romano more than divides INIantua with her native 
V'irgil. ' To the south we hear of Roman names. Near 
Thrasimene tradition is still l"aithful to the fame of an 
enemy, and Hannibal the C arthaginian is the only ancient 
name remembered on the banks of the Perugian lake. 
Flaminius is unknown ; bi t the postilions on that road 
have been taught to show the very spot where il Console 
Romano was slain. Of all who fought and fsH in the 
battle of Thasimene, the historian himself has, besides 
tlie generals and Maharbal, preserved indeed only a 
single name. You overtake the Carthaginian again on 
the same read to Rome. The antiquarj^, that is, the 
hostler of the post-house at Spoleto, tells you that his 
town repulsed the victorious enemy, and shows you the 
gate still called Porta di Annibale. It is hardly worth 
while to remark that a French travel- writer, well known 
by the name of the President Dupaty, saw Thrasimene 
in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on his 
way from Sien^ia to Rome. 

Note 36. Stanza Ixvi. 
But thou, Clitumnus ! 
No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and Spoleto ; 
and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy a 
description. For an account of the dilapidation of 
this temple, the reader is referred to Historical Illustra- 
tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 

Note 37. Stanza Ixxi. 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract. 
I saw the *' Cascata del marmore" of Terni twice, at 
different periods ; once from the summit of the preci- 
pice, and again from the valley below. The lower 
new is far to be preferred, if the traveller has time 
for one only: but in any point of view, either from 
above or below, it is worth all the cascades and tor- 
rents of Switzerland put together ; the Staubach, Rei- 
chcnbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, etc., are rills 



A About the middle of tine Xlltli century, the coins of 
Wantiia bore on one side the image and figure of Virgil. 
Zerca iV Italia, pi. xvii. i. B. . . Voyase dans le Milanais, 
■un., par A Z. Miliin.iom u. p. 291. Paris, 1817. 



in comparative appearance. Of the fall of Schafl 
hausen I cannot speak, not yet having seen il. 

Note 38. Stanza Ixxii. 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of Ins 
the reader may have seen a short account in a note to 
Manfred. The fall looks so much like "the hell of 
waters" that Addison thought the descent alluded to 
to be the gulf in which Alecto plunged into the in- 
fernal regions. It is singular enough that two of the 
finest cascades in Europe should be artificial — this of 
the Velino, and the one at Tivoh. The traveller is 
strongly recommended to trace the Velino, at least as 
high as the little lake called Pie' di Lup. The Reatine 
territory was the Italian Tempe,' and the ancient na- 
turalist, amongst other beautiful varieties, remarked 
the daily rainbows of the lake Velinus.'^ A scholar 
of great name has devoted a treatise to this district 
alone. ^ 

Note 39. Stanza Lxxiii. 

The thundering lauwine. 
In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are 
known by the name of lauwine. 

Note 40. Stanza Ixxv. 



abhorr'd 



Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake. 

The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word. 

These stanzas may probablj'^ remind the reader of 
Ensign Northerton's remarks : " D — n Homo," etc., but 
the reasons for our dislilce are not exactly the same. 
I wish to express that we become tired of the task 
before w-e can comprehend the beauty • that we learn 
by rote before we can get by heart ; that the freshness 
is worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage 
deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, 
at an age when we can neither feel nor understand 
the power of compositions which it requires an ac- 
quaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to 
relish or to reason upon. For the same reason we 
never can be aware of the fulness of some of the finest 
passages of Shakspeare ("To be or not to be," for 
instance), from the habit of having them hammered 
into us at eight years old, as an exercise, not of mind 
but of memory : so that when we are old enough to 
enjoy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. 
In some parts of the continent, young persons are 
taught from more common authors, and do not read 
the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do not 
speak on this point from any pique or aversion to- 
wards the place of my education. I was not a slow, 
though an idle boy; and I believe no one could, or 
can be more attached to Harrow than I have always 
been, and with reason; — a part of the time passed 
there was the happiest of my life ; and my preceptor 
(the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best and worthiest 
friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remem- 
bered but too well, though too late — when I have 
erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when 
I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 



1 " Reatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt." Cicer. Epist. ad 
Attic. XV. lib. IV. 

2 " In eodem lacu nullo non die apparere arcus." Plio. 
Hist. Nat. lib. ii. cap. Ixii. 

3 Aid. Manut. de Rentina urbe agroque ap. Sallengre 
Thesaur. torn. i. p. 773 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



123 



record of my feelings towards him should reach his 
eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of 
him but with gratitude and veneration — of one who 
would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, 
by more closely following his injunctions, he could 
refiect any honour upon his instructor. 
Note 41. Stanza Ixxix. 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now. 
For a comment on this and the two following stanzas, 
the reader may consult Historical Illustrations of the 
Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 

Note 42. Stanza Ixxxii. 

The trebly hundred triumphs! 

Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the 

humber of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius : 

and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modem writers. 

Note 43. Stanza kxxiii. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, etc. 

Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life 

of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard 

him as a monster unredeenied by any admirable quality. 

The atonement of his vohmtary resignation of empire 

may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have 

satisfied the Romans, who if they had not respected 

must have destroyed him. There could be no mean, no 

division of opinion ; they must have all thought, hke 

Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love 

of glory, and what had been mistaken for pride was a 

real grandeur of soul. ' 

Note 44. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
On the third of September, Cromwell gained the vic- 
tory of Dunbar ; a year afterwards he obtained "his 
crowning mercy" of Worcester ; and a few years after, 
on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most 
fortunate for him, died. 

Note 45. Stanza Ixxxvii. 
And thou, dread statue ! stiil existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 

The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it 
in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca,^ and it may be 
added to his mention of it that Pope Julius III. gave 
the contending owners five hundred crowns for the 
statue; and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, 
who had prevented tlie judgment of Solomon from 
being executed upon the image. In a more civilized 
age this statue was exposed to an actual operation : for 
the French, who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the 
Coliseum, resolved that their Caesar should fall at the 
base of that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. The 
nine foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 
the amplutheatre, and to facilitate its transport, suf- 
fered the temporary amputation of its right arm. The 
republican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 
restoration : but their accusers do not believe that the 
integrity of the statue would have protected it. The 



1 " Seigneur, vous changez, toutes mes ideas de la facon 
dont je vous vois agir. Je croyais que vous aviez de I'amhi- 
tion, mais aucun amour pour la gloire: je voyais bien que 
v'otre ame etait haute ; mais je ne soupconnais pas qu'elle 
Tit grande." — Dialogue de Sylla et (f Hucrate. 

2 Memoiia num. Ivii. pag. 9. ap. ?tlontfaucon, Diarium 
ttalicun: 



love of finding every coincidence has discovered the 
true Caesarean ichor in a stain near the right knee ; 
but colder criticism has rejected not only the blood 
but the portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather 
to the first of the emperors than to the last oi the 
republican masters of Rome. Winkelmann ' is loth 
to allow a heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the 
Gnmani Agrippa, a contemporary almost, is heroic ; and 
naked Roman figures were only very rare, not abso- 
lutely forbidden. The face accords much better Avith 
the " hominem integrum et castum et gravem" ^ than 
with any of the busts of Augustus, and is too stern for 
him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods 
of his life. The pretended likeness to Alexander the 
Great cannot be discerned, but the traits resemble the 
medal of Pompey.^ The objectionable globe may not 
have been an ill-applied flattery to him who found 
Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of the 
Roman empire. It seems that Winkelmann has made 
a mistake in thinking that no proof of the identity of 
this statue, with that which received the bloody sacri- 
fice, can be derived from the spot where it was discov- 
ered.* Flaminius Vacca says sotto una cantina, and 
this cantina is known to have been in the Vicolo de 
Leutari near the Cancellaria, a position corresponding 
exactly to that of the Janus before the basihca of 
Poinpey's theatre, to which Augustus transferred the 
statue after the curia was either burnt or taken down. '' 
Part of the Pompeian shade,^ the portico, existed in 
the beginning of the XV th century, and the atrium 
was still called Satrum. So says Blondus.'' At all 
events, so imposing is the stem majesty of the statue, 
and so memorable is the story, that the play of the 
imagination leaves no room for the exercise of the 
judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates 
on the spectator with an effect not less powerful than 
tnith. 

Note 46. Stanza Lxxxviii. 
And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 
Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded mos 
probably with images of the foster-mother of he 
founder; but there were two she-wolves of whon: 
history makes particular mention. One of these, of 
brass in ancient work, was seen by Dionysius ® at tlie 
temple of Romulus under the Palatine, and is uni- 
versally believed to be that mentioned by the Latin 
historian, as having been made from the money col- 
lected by a fine on usurers, and as standing under the 
Ruminal fig-tree.^ The other was that which Cicero ''■' 
has celebrated both in prose and verse, and which tlio 



1 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. ix. cap. i. p. 321, 322. torn, ii 

2 Cicer. Epist. a-1 Atticum, xi. 6. 

3 Published by Causeus in his Museum Romanum. 

4 Storia delle arti, etc.. ibid. 

5 Sueton. in \-it. August, cap. 31. and in vit. C. J. Caesar, 
cap. 88. Appian says it was burnt down. See a nolo of Pit 
iscus to Suetonius, pag. 224. 

6 " Tu modo Pompeia lenta spatiare sub umbra." 

Ovid Ar. Aman. 

7 Roma instaurata, lib. ii. fol. 31. 

8 -K-oKKta -oif)\La-ra -naXaiai ipyacias. Antiq. Rom. fih. i 

9 " Ad ficum Ruminalem simulacra infantium conditoru.ii 
urbis sub uberibus kipae posuerunt." Liv. Hist, lib x cap. 
Ixix. This was in the year U. C. 455, or 457. 

10 " Turn statua NattK, turn simulacra Deorum, Romulus 
que et Remus cum altricebellua vi fulminis icti conciderunt." 
De Divinat. ii. 20. "Tactus est ille etiam qui hanc urbein 
condidit Uomuluis, quem inauratura in Capitolio parvun? 



124 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



listor .«m Dion also records as having suffered the same 
aocide it as is alluded to by the orator,^ The question 
agitalfd by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now 
in the conservator's palace is that of Livy and Dio- 
nysiu?, or that of Cicero, or whether it is neither 
one nor ihe other. The earlier writers differ as much 
as the moderns : Lucius Faunus ^ says, that it is the one 
alluded to by both, which is impossible, and also by 
Virgil, which may be. Fulvius Ursinus ^ calls it the 
wolf of. Dionysius, and MarUanus * talks of it as the 
one mentioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius trem- 
blingly assents.* Nardini is inchned to suppose it may 
be one of the many wolves preserved in ancient Rome ; 
but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue.^ 
Montfaucon' mentions it as a point without doubt. 
Of the later writers the decisive Winkelmann^ pro- 
claims it as having been found at the church of Saint 
Theodore, where, or near where, was the temple of 
Romulus, and consequently makes it the wolf of 
Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, who, how- 
ever, only says that it was placed not found, at the 
Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, by which he does 
not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. 
Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and 
Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says 



atqiie lactantem, uberibus lupinis inhiantem fuisse meminis- 
tis." In Catilin. ill. 8. 

" Hie sylvestris erat Romani nominis altrix 
M;irtia. quce parvos Mavortis semine natos 
Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigabat, 
Quae turn cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu 
Concidir, atQiic aviilsfi pedum vestii?ia liquit." 
De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Dlvinat. cap. ii.) 
' 'Ev yap Tw KaTir]TO)\i(j^ avSpiavTCs re ttoWoI vtto 
Kepavvwv (ruve)(^u)vcvdricrav, Kai nya^nara aWa re, 
Kai Albs tTTi Kiovos iSpv[jiivov, ukojv ri rig Xu/catV/?? 
ffvviTC Tip Pw/iw Kai avv t'T) Pw//uaw ISpvfiivij e-Earj. 
Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii. pag. 37. edit. Rob. Steph. 1.548. He 
goes on to mention that the letters of the columns on which 
the laws were written were liquefied and become ajivSpd. 
All that the Romans did was to erect a large statue to Jupiter, 
looking towards the east: no mention is afterwards made of 
the wolf. This happened in A. U. C. 689. The Abate Fea, 
in noticing this passage of Dion, (Storia dellc arti, etc., torn. 
i. p. 202. note x.) says, .ATon ostante, agsi.unse Dione, die 
fosse ben-fcrmata (the wolt), by which it is clear the Abate 
translated the Xylandro-Leuclavian version, which puts 
quamvis stahilita for the original I6pvpivr], a word that does 
not mean ben-fermala. but only raised, as may be distinctly 
seen from another passage of the same Dion : ii&ov\t}Bv, 
utv ovv Aypl-nrTTUs Kai rbv AZyovarov hravda 'ihpvaai. 
Hist. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agrippa " wished to raise a 
statue of Augustus in the Pantheon." 

2 " In eadem porticu cenea lupa, cujus uberibus Romulus ac 
Remns lactantes inhiant, conspicilur: de hac Cicero et 
Virgilius semper intellexere. Livius hoc signum ab ^dilibus 
ex pecuniis quibus muictati essent foeneralores. positum in- 
nuit. Antea in Comitiis ad Ficum Riiminalem, quo loco pueri 
fuerant expositi locatum pro certo est." Luc. Fauni, de 
Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. vii. ?.p. Sallengre, torn. i. p. 
5il7. In his XVlIth chapter he repeats that the statues were 
there, but not that they were found there. 

3 Ap. Nardini, RomaVetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 

1 Marliani, Urb. Rom. topograph, lib. ii. cap. ix. He men- 
lions another wolf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap. xxi. 

5 ''Non desunt qui haiic ipsam esse patent, quam adpinxi- 
mug, quae e comitio in Basilicam Lateranam, cum nonnullis 
a his antiquitatum reliquiis, atque hinc in Capitolium postea 
rulata sit, quamvis Marlianus antiquam Capitolinam esse 
maiuit a Tullio descriptam, cui ut in re nimis dubia, trepide 
assentimur." Just. Rycquii de Capit. Roman. Comm. cap 
xxiv. pag. 2.50. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1696. 

Nardini Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 

7 " Lupa ho.lieque in capitolinis prostat aedibus, cum ves- 
tigio fulminis quo ictam narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn 
I. 0. 174. 

t f'torin delle arti, eic, lib. iii. cap. iii. ^ ii. note 10. Win 
ikclmann has ,made a strange blunder in the note, by saying 
ilift Ciceronian wolf was not in the Capitol, ?nd that Dion 
wu wrong ir. saying so. 



he had heard the wolf with the twins was found ' near 
the arch of Seplimius Severus. The commentator on 
Winkehnann is of the same opinion with that learned 
person, and is mcensed at Nardini for not having re- 
marked that Cicero, in spcciking of the wolf struck 
with lightning in the Capitol, makes use of the past 
tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Nardini does not 
positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by 
Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not per- 
haps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate 
himself is obhged to own that there are marks very 
hke the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the 
present wolf and, to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf 
seen by Dionysius might have been also struck by hght- 
ning, or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems to 
particularize the Romulus and the Remus, especially 
the first, which his audience remembered to have been 
in the Capitol, as being struck with hghtning. In his 
verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and 
that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Cicero 
does not say that the wolf was consumed : and Dion 
only mentions that it fell down, without alluding, as 
the Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, or 
the firmness with which it had been fixed. The whole 
strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument, hangs 
upon the past tense ; which, however, may be some- 
what diminished by remarking that the phrase only 
shows that the statue was not then standing in its 
former position. Winkehnann has observed, that the 
present twins are modern; and it is equally clear that 
there are marks of gilding on the wolf, which might 
therefore be supposed to make part of the ancient 
group. It is known that the sacred images of the Capi- 
tol were not destroyed when injured by time or accident, 
but were put into certain undergroimd depositories 
called favissm,^ It may be thought possible that the 
wolf had been so deposited, and had been replaced in 
some conspicuous situation when the Capitol was re- 
built by Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his 
authority, tells that it was transferred from the Comi- 
tium to the Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. 
If it was found near the arch of Severus, it may have 
been one of the images which Orosius ' says was thrown 
down in the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the 
city. That it is of very high antiquity the workman- 
ship is a decisive proof; and that circumstance induced 
Winkelmann to believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The 
Capiloline wolf, however, may have been of the same 
early date as that at the temple of Romulus. Lactan- 
tius ■* asserts that, in his time, the Romans \vorshipped a 
w^olf ; and it is known that the Lupercalia held out to 



1 " Intesi dire, che PErcoIe di bronze, che oggi si trova nella 
sala del Campidoglio, fu trovato nel foro Romano appresso 
I'arco di Settimio : e vi fu trovata anche la lupa di bronzo che 
allaUa Romolo e Remo, e stk nella Loggia de' conservatori." 
Flam. Vacca. Rlemorie, num. iii. pag. i. ap. Montfaucon, 
Diar. Ital, tom. i. 

2 Luc. Faun. ibid. 

3 See note to stanza LXXX. in Historical Illustrations. 

4 "Romuli nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecfa divinis, ei 
ferrem si animal ipsum fuisset, cujus figuram gerit." Lac- 
tam, de falsa religione. Lib. i. cap. 20. pag. 101. edit, vario- 
1660; that is to say, he would rather adore a wolf than o 
prostitute. His commentator has observed, that the opinior 
of Livy concerning Laurentia being figured in this woif waa 
not universal. Strabo thought so. Rycquius is wrong in say- 
ing that Lactantius mentioDS the wolf was in the CapitoL 



CHILDE HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 



125 



a very .ate period * after every other observance of the 
ancient superstition had totally expired. This may ac- 
count for the preservation of the a/icient image longer 
than the other early symbols of paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark that the 
wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of 
that symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lac- 
tantius. The early Christian writers are not to be 
trusted in the charges which they make against the 
pagans. Eusebius accused the Romans to their faces 
of worshipping Simon Magus, and raising a statue to 
him in the island of the Tyber. The Romans had prob- 
ably never heard of such a person before, who came, 
however, to play a considerable, though scandalous part 
in the church nistory, and has left several tokens of his 
aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding 
that an inscription found in this very island of the 
Tyber showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be a 
certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus orFidius.^ 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had 
been abandoned, it was thought expedient to humour 
the habits of the good matrons of the city by sending 
them with their sick infants to the church of St. Theo- 
dore, as they had before carried them to the temple of 
Romulus.' The practice is continued to this day ; and 
Ihe site of the above church seems to be thereby iden- 
tified with that of the temple : so that if the wolf had 
been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there 
would be no doubt of the present statue being that 
seen by Dionysius.'* But Faunus, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only talking 
of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny ; and even 
if he had been remarking where it was found, would 
not have alluded to the church of St. Theodore, but to 
a very different place, near which it was then thought 
the Ficus Ruminahs had been, and also the Comitium ; 
that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria 
Liberatrice, at the corner of the Palatine looking on 
the Forum, 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was 
actually dug up,* and perhaps, on the whole, the marks 



1 To A. D. 496. "ftuis credere possit," says Baronius, 
(Ann. Eccles. torn. viii. pag. 602. in an. 496.) " vi^uisse adhuc 
Romae ad Gelasii tempora, quae fuere ante exordia urbis al- 
!ata in Italiam LupercaliaV Gelasius wrote a letter which 
occupies four folio pages to Andromachus, the senator, and 
others, to show that the rites should be given up. 

2 Eusebius has these words-. Kal avSpiavri irap' vjilv wj 
5-£df T£Ti[iT]Tai, iv Tio TiSepi ixoraixi^ yiZTa^v rwv 6vo yt(p- 
vpwv, e^it)v l~iYpa<pfjv Pw/iatKJji/ ravrrjv, ^[pcovi Sei^ 
SayKrw. Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. cap. xiii. p. 40. Justin Martyr 
had told the story before : but Baronius himself was obliged 
to detect this fable. See Nardini Roma Vet. lib. vii. cap. xii. 

3 " In essa gli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de' 
giuochi Lupercali istituiti in onore di Romolo, introdussero 1' 
uso di portarvi Bambini oppressi da intermitk occulte, accio 
si libenno per I'intercessione di questo Santo, come di con- 
tinuo si sperimenta." Rione xii. Ripa, accurata e succinta 
iescrizione, etc., di Roma Moderna dell' Ab. Ridolf. Venuti, 
1766. 

4 Nardini, lib. v. cap. ii. convicts Pomponius LjEtus cra-ssi 
crroris, in putting the Ruminal fig-tree at the church of Saint 
"Theodore : but as Livy says the wolf was at the Ficus Rumi- 
lalis, and Dionysius at the temple of Romulus, he is obliged 
(cap. iv.) to own that the two were close together, as well as 
Uie Lupercal cave, shaded, as it were, by the fig-tree. 

6 " Ad comitium ficus olim Ruminalis germinabat, sub qua 
lupae rumam, hoc est, mammam, docente Varrone, suxerant 
ohm Romulus et Remus; non procul a tempio hodie D. 
Mariae Liberatricis appellato, ubi forsan inventa nobilis ilia 
enea statua lupae geniir)oe puerulos lactantis, quam hodie in 



of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argu- 
ment m favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf than 
any that can be adduced for the contrary opinion. A\ 
any rate, it is reasonably selected in the text of the 
poem as one of the most interesting relics of the ancient 
city,' ana is certainly the figure, if not the very animal 
to wmch Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses : 

" Geminos huic ubera circum 
Ludere pendentes pueros et lambere matrem 
Impavidos : iilam tereti cervice rcflexam 
Mulcere alternos, cl fingere corpora lingua."* 

Note 47. Stanza xc. 

-for the Roman's mind 



Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould. 

It is possible to be a very great man, and to b^ still 
very inferior to Julius Caesar, the most complete chai- 
acter, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature 
seems incapable of such extraordinary combinations as 
composed his versatile capacity, which was the wonder 
even of the Romans themselves. The first general — 
the only triumphant poUtician — inferior to none in 
eloquence — comparable to any in die attainments of 
wisdom, in an age made up of the greatest commanders, 
statesmen, orators, and philosophers, that ever appeared 
in the world — an author who composed a perfect speci- 
men of miUtary annals in his travelhng-carriage — at 
one time in a controversy with Cato, at another writing 
a treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good say- 
ings — fighting ' and making love at the same moment, 
and willing to abandon both his empire and his mi.s- 
tress for a sight of the fountains of the Nile. Such 
did Juhus Cfesar appear to his contemporaries, and to 
those of the subsequent ages, who were the most in 
clined to deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his sui- 
passing glory or with his magnanimous, his amiable 
qualities, as to forget tlie decision of his impartial 
countrymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.* 



Capitolio videmus." Olai Bqrrichii antiqua Urbis Romanae 
facies, cap. x. See also cap. xii. Borrichius wrote after Nar- 
dini in 16c7. Ap. Grcev. Antiq. Rom. torn. iv. p. 1522. 

1 Donatus, lib. xi. cap. 18, gives a medal representing on 
one side the wolf in the same petition as tiiat in the Capitol; 
and in the reverse the wolf with the head not reverted. It is 
of the time of Antoninus Pius. 

2 itneid, viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from 
Rome, who inclines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without ex 
amining the subject. 

3 In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with the 
blood of Pharsalia in the arms of Cleopatra: 

" Sanguine Thessalicae cladis perfusus adulter 
Admisit Venerem curis, et miscuit armis." 
After feasting with his mistress, he sits up all night to coti- 
verse with the Egyptian sages, and tells Achoreus 
"Spes sit mihi certa videndi 
Niliacos fontes, bellum civile relinquam:" 
"Sic velut in tuta securi pace trahebant 
Noctis iter medium." 
Immediately afterwards, he is fighting again and defending 
every position : 

" Sed adest defensor ubique 
Cossar, et hos aditus gladiis, hos ignibus arcet 

Caeca nocte carinis 

Insiluit Cffisar semper feliciter usus 
PraBcipiti cursu bellorum et tempore rapto." 

4 "Jure CEBsus existimetur,'' says Suetonius, after a fair 
estimation of his character, and making use of a phrase which 
was a formula in Livy's time. " Melium jure ca-sum pronim 
tiavit, etiam si reeni crimine insons fuerit." (lib. iv. cap. 48.' 
and which was continued in the lesal judgments pronounce*^ 
in justifiable homicides, such as killing housebreakers. S'^ 
Sueton. in vit, C. J. Caesaris, v/ith the commentate x.<"Pi*ificu» 
p. 184 



126 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 48. Stanza xciii. 
What from (bis barren being do we reapT 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail 
" . . . . Omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, 
nihil percipi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos sensus ; 
imbecilles animos, hrevia curricula vitre ; in profundo 
veritatem dcmersam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia 
tenari ; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tenebris 
circumfusa esse dixerunt." ' The eighteen hundred 
years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have 
not removed any of the imperfections of humanity: 
and the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, 
without injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a 
poem written yesterday- 
Note 49. Stanza xcix. 
There is a stern round tower of other days. 
Alluding to the tomb of CeciUa Metella, called Capo 
di Bove, in the Appian Way. See Historical Illustra- 
tions of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 
Note 50. Stanza cii. 



-prophetic of the doom 



Heaven gives its favourites — early death. 
Ov oJ &£ol (l)iXov<nv, a-KoBvrjuKzi viog. 
T yap ^ave7v ovk alc^pbv, aAX' al<T)(pu)s S^avuv. 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetae Gnomici, p. 
231. edit. 1784. 

Note 51. Stanza cvii. 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been 
told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but 
a Roman antiquary, — See Historical Illustrations, page 
206. 

Note 52. Stanza cviii. 

There is the moral of all human tales ; 
'T is but the same rehearsal of the past. 
First freedom, and then glory, etc. 

The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his 
cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- 
sage : " From their railleries of this kind, on the bar- 
barity and misery of our island, one cannot help re- 
flecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of king- 
doms, how Rome, once the mistress of the world, the 
seat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, 
ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as 
well as to the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition, 
and religious imposture: while this remote country, 
anciently the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, 
is become the happy scat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; 
flourishing in all the arts and refinements of civil Hfe ; 
yet running perhaps the same course which Rome it- 
self had run before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; 
(rom wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an impatience 
of discipline, and corruption of morals : till, by a total 
degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown ripe for 
destruftion, it fall a prey at last to some hardy oppress- 
or, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing that 
id valuablo^ sinks gradually again into its original bar- 
bar Lsn.."^ 



i Academ. 1. 13 

'2 The Hietory of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vi. 
oL ii. pag. i05 The contrast has been reversed in a late 
•rtraoidinary iastance. A gentleman was thrown into prisou 



Note 53. Stanza ex. 



-and apostolic statues climb 



To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. 
The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter 
that of AureUus by St. Paul. See Historical lUustratiorji 
of the IVth Canto, etc. 

Note 54. Stanza cxi. 
Still we Trajan's name adore. 
Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 
princes : ' and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one 
possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this 
emperor. " When he mounted the throne," says the 
historian Dion,^ " he was strong in body, he was vigor- 
ous in mind ; age had impaired none of his faculties ; 
he was ahogether free from envy and from detraction ; 
he honoured all the good and he advanced them ; and 
on this account they could not be the objects of his fear 
or of his hate ; he never listened to informers ; he gave 
not way to his anger ; he abstained equally from unfair 
exactions and unjust punishments ; he had rather be 
loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign ; he was 
affable with his people, respectful to the senate, and 
universally beloved by both ; he inspired none with 
dread but the enemies of his country." 

Note 55. Stanza cxiv. 
Rienzi, last of Romans ! 
The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to 
the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited man- 
uscripts, relative to this unhappy hero, vvill be seen in 
the Illustrations of the IVtli Canto. 

Note 56. Stanza cxv. 
Eeeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast. 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto.^ 
He assures us that he saw an inscription on the pave- 
ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeriadedi 



at Paris , efforts were made for his release. The French min- 
ister continued to detain him, under the pretext that he was 
not an Englishman, but only a Roman. See " Interesting facta 
relating to Joachim Murat," pag. 139. 

1 "Hujus tantum memoriae delatum est, ut, usque ad nos- 
tram a?tatem non aliter in Senatu principibus acclamatur, 
nisi, FELICIOR. AVGVSTO. MELIOR. TRAJANO." 
Eutrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. cap. v. 

^ Tu) T£ yap awjiari spp(i)To KaiTJ} ^•v)(fj jjKfia^tv, 

wg nrjQ^ hvo yripiog ap6\xw£(79ai Kai ovr IdOovti, 

ovT£ Ka9tip£i riv«, aWa Kal Trdw -dvrag Tovg dyaOovg 
eTiixq. Kai £p£yd\vv£' Kal 5id tovto o'vte {(ftoSziro riva 

ahrHv, ovTE epLiaEi 6ta6o\a7s r£ riKiara eiriaTEve, 

Kal dpyji riKtara l5ov\ovTO. rCJv re ^prjjiaTwv t&v aAXw 

Tpiwv tea KaX (^dvwv t(Zv dSiKiov dTr£i^£To ^iXovjie- 

vog T£ oiJv £V avToig ixdWov >) rj/xw/i£voj e^aipE Kai tA 
T£ Srijxo) IJ.CT iTTUiKEiag (rvv£yiv£TO, Kal rfj ytipovcria ce//- 
vo-p£-u)g uypiXsi' ayaizrirbg jih -dai' ^oSzpog bt firjSevi, 
Tv\T]v Tro\£p.ioig wv. Hist. Rom. lib. Ixviii. cap. ii. vii. torn. 
ii. p. 1123, 1124. edit. Hamb. 1750. 

3 " Poco lontano dal detto luogo si scende ad un casaietto, 
del quale ne sono Padroni Ii Cafarelii, che con qucsto nome 
e chiamato ii luogo; vie una fontana sotto una gran volta 
antica, che al presente si gode, e Ii Romani vi vanno Testate 
a ricrearsi ; nel pavimentodi essa fonte si legge in un epitaffio 
essere quella la fonte di Egeria, dedicata alle uinfe, e questa 
dice TepitafRo, essere la medesima fonte in cui fu convertita." 
Memorie, etc. ap. Nardini, pag. 13- He does not give !b»» 
description. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1:27 



cated to the nymphs. The inscription is not there at 
this day ; but Mo ntfaucon quotes two lines ' of Ovid 
from a stone in the Villa Giustiniani, which he seems 
to think had been brought from the same grotto. 

'Ihis grotto and valley were formerly frequented in 
summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by 
the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality 
to the fountain which trickles from an orifice at the 
bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the little pools, 
creeps down the matted grass into the brook below. 
The brook is the Ovidian Alnio, whose name and quali- 
ties are lost in the modern Aquataccio. The valley 
itself is called Valle di Caffarelli, from the dukes of 
that name, who made over their fountain to the Palla- 
vicini, with sixty ruhhia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt, that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
Umbricius, notwithstanding the generality of his com- 
mentators have supposed the descent of the satirist and 
his friend to have been into the Arician grove, where 
the nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was more 
peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, 
fifteen miles distant, would be too considerable, unless 
we were to believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, 
who makes that gate travel from its present station, 
where he pretends it was during the reign of the Kings, 
as far as the Arican grove, and then makes it recede 
to its old site with the shrinking city. ^ The tufo, or 
pumice, which the poet prefers to marble, is the sub- 
stance composmg the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 

The modern topographers ^ find in the grotto the 
Btatue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, and 
a late traveller * has discovered that the cave is restored 
to that simplicity which the poet regretted had been 
exchanged for injudicious ornament. But the headless 
statue is palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has 
none of the attributes ascribed • it at present visible. 
The nine Muses could hardly ha\ , jod in six niches ; 
and .Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual 
cave. ^ Nothing can be collected from the satirist but 
that somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations 
with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a 
sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the 
Muses ; and that from this, spot there was a descent into 



1 "In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus 
in quo sculpta licec duo Ovidii carmina sunt 

^seria est quae praebet aquas dea grata Camoenis. 
Ilia Numre conjux consiliumque fuit. 
Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egerice fonte, aut ejus vicinia 
isthuccomportatus." Diarium Ital'C. p. 153. 

2 Ue magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Grcev. Ant. Rom. tom. iv. p. 
1507. 

3 Echinard. Descrizio'ne di Roma e dell' agro Romano cor- 
retto dall' Abate Venuti in Roma, 1750. They believe in the 
grotto and nymph. " Simulacra di questo fonte, essendovi 
sculpite le acque a pie di esso." 

4 Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217. vol. ii. 

5 "Substitit ad vcteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, 

Hie ubi nocturnae Numa constituebat arnica?, 
Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
Judaeis quorum cophinum foenumque supellex. 
Omnis enim populo inercedem pendere jussa est 
Arbor, et e.iectis mendicat silva Camoenis. 
In vallem Egeriae descendimus, et speluncas 
Dfesimiles veris ; quanto praestantius esset 
Numen aquae, viridi si margine clauderet undas 
Herba noc ingenuura violarent marmora tophum." 

Sat. m 



the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial caves. 
It is clear that the statues of the Muses made no part 
of the decoration which the satirist thought misplaceo 
in these caves ; for he expressly assigns other fane., 
(delubra) to these divinities above the valley, and more- 
over tells us, that they had been ejected to make room 
for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called thaf. 
of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
Muses, and Nardini^ places them in a poplar grove, 
w^ich was in his time above *he valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, that 
the cave now shown may be one of the " artificial cav- 
erns," of which, indeed, there is another a little way 
higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but 
a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invention, 
grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian to 
these nymphea in general, and which might send us 
to look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of the 
Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- 
lation by his acquaintance with Pope : he carefully pre- 
serves the correct plural — 

" Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots; oh, how unlike the true !" 

The valley abounds with springs, ^ and over these 
springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- 
bouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was said 
to supply them with water ; and she was the nymph of 
the grottos through which the fountains were taught to 
flow% 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
Egerian valley have received names at will, which have 
been changed at will. Venuti ' owns he can see no 
traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, 
and Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The 
mutatorium of C aracalla's circus, the temple of Honour 
and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the 
temple of the god of Rediculus, are the antiquaries' 
despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that 
emperor cited byFulvius TJrsinus, of which the reverse 
shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to repre- 
sent the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of 
that place of exercise. The soil has been but little 
raised, if we may judge from the smaH cellular structure 
at the end of the Spina, which was p/obably the chapel 
of the god Consus. This cell is half bereath the soil, 
as it must have been in th circus itself, fir Dionysius '^ 
could not be persuaded t.^ beUeve that th"s divinity was 
the Roman Neptune, because his alt.ir was under 
ground. 

Note 57. Stanza cxxvii. 
Yet let us ponder boldly. 

" At all events," says the author of the Aradcmic«u 
Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate of my 
own speculations, that philosophy will regain that esti- 
mation which it ought to possess. The free and phi- 
losophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of ad- 
miration to the world. This was the proud distinction 
of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all theb- 
lory. Shall we then forget the manly and digmfi«iii 



1 Lib. iii. cap. iii. 

2 " Undique e solo aquaj scaturiunt." Va diwi, lib iii. cap 
i. 

3 Echinard, etc. Cic. cit. pp. 297, 2^ 

4 ^Dtiq. Rom lib. ii. cao. x&xi 



1^:28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language of 
the mother or the nurse about our good old prejudices ? 
This IS not the way to defend the cause of truth. It 
was not thus that our fathers maintained it in the bril 
hant periods of our history. Prejudice may be trusted 
to guard the outworks for a short space of time, while 
reason slumbers in the citadel : but if the latter sink 
mto a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standard 
for herself. Philosoph}', wisdom, and liberty, support 
each other ; he who will not reason, is a bigot ; he who 
cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a slave. 
Preface, p. xiv. xv. vol. i. 1805. 

Note 58. Stanza exxxii. 



-great Nemesis I 



Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long. 

We read, in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warn- 
ing received hi a dream, • counterfeited once a-year the 
Deggar, sitting before the gate of his palace, with his 
hand hollowed, and stretched out for charity. A statue 
formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be 
now at Paris, represents the emperor in that posture of 
supplication. The object of this self-degradation was 
the appeasement of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant 
on good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors 
were also reminded by certain symbols attached to their 
cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and the 
crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of the 
Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above 
statue pass for that of Belisarius ; and until the criti- 
cism of Winkelmann - had rectified the mistake, one 
fiction was called in to support another. It was the same 
fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that made 
Amasis, king of Egypt, warn his friend Polycrates of 
Samos, that the gods loved those whose lives were 
chequered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was 
supposed to he in wait particularly for the prudent : that 
IS, for those whose caution rendered them accessible 
only to mere accidents ; and her first altar was raised 
on the banks of the Phrygian ^sepus by Adrastus, 
probably the prince of that name, who killed the son of 
Croesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called 
Adrastea. ' 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august ; there 
was a temple to her in the Palatine, under the name of 
Rhamnusia : * so great indeed was the propensity of the 
ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to be- 
lieve in the divinity of fortune, that in the same Pala- 
tine there was a temple to the fortune of the day. ^ 
This is the last superstition which retains its hold over 
the human heart ; and from concentrating in one ob- 
ject the credulity so natural to man, has always appeared 
strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of 



1 Sueton. in vit. Augusti, cap. 91. Casaubon, in the note, 
refers to Plutarch's Lives of Camillus and ^milius Paulus, 
and also to his apophthegms, for the character of this deity. 
The hollowed hand was reckoned the last degree of degra- 
dation: and when the dead body of the prcefect Rufinus was 
•»orne about in triumph by the people, the indignity was in- 
creased by putting his hand in that position. 

2 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p. 422. 
Vistonti call.> the statue, however, a Cybele. It is given in 
the Museo Pio Clement, torn. i. par. 40. The Abate Fea 
ISpiegaziode dei Rami. Storia, etc., torn. iii. p. 513.) calls it 
a Chnsippus 

2 Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 

4 It is enumerated by the regionary Victor. 

5 •' Fortunoe hujuscc diei." Cicero mentions her, de legib. 
ttb li. 



belief. The antiquaries have supposed tnis goddess tc 
be synonymous with fortune and with fate : ' but it waa 
in her vindictive quality that she was worshipped under 
the name of Nemesis. 

Note 59. Stanza cxl. 
I see before me the gladiator lie. 
Whether the wonderful statue which suggestec this 
image, be a laquearian gladiator, which in spite oi 
Winkelmann's criticism, has been stoutly maintained, ' 
or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary 
positively asserted, ^ or whether it is to be thought a 
Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the 
opinion of his Italian editor, ^ it must assuredly seem a 
copy of that masterpiece of Ctesilaus, which repre- 
sented " a wounded man dying, who perfectly expressed 
what there remained of life in him." ^ Montfaucon^ 
and MafTei'^ thought it the identical statue; but that 
statue was of bronze. The gladiator was once in the 
villa Ludo\azi, and was bought by Clement XII. The 
right arm is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo. 
Note 60. Stanza cxh. 



-he, their sire, 



Butcher'd to make a Roman noliday. 
Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- 
tary ; and were supplied from several conditions ; from 
slaves sold for that [)urpose ; from culprits ; from bar- 
barian captives, either taken in war, and, after being 
led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized 
and condemned as rebels ; also from free citizens, some 
fighting for hire {auctoraii), others from a depraved 
ambition : at last even knights and senators were ex 
hibited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally 
the first inventor. ^ In the end, dwarfs, and even wo- 
men, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of 
these the most to be pitied, undoubted!}', were the bar- 
barian captives ; and to this species a Christian writer '" 
justly applies the epithet " innocent,'''' to distinguish them 



1 DEAE NEMESI 

SIVE FORTVNAE 

PISTORIVS 

RVGIANVS 

V. C. LEGAT. 

LEG. XIIT. G. 

GORD. 

See Qucstiones Romanes, etc., Ap. Grsev. Anfiq. Roman 

tom. v. p. 942. See also Muratori. Nov. Thesaur. Inscript. 

Vet. tom. i. pp. 88, 89. where there are three Latin and one 

Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others to Fate. 

2 By the Abate Bracci, dissertazione sopra un clipeo-votivo, 
etc. Preface, pag. 7, who accounts for the cord rourni the 
neck, but not for the horn, which it does not appear the gla- 
diators themselves ever used. Note (A.) Storia delle arti, 
tom. ii. p. 205. 

3 Either Polifonfes, herald of Laius, killed by CEdipus ; or 
Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians when 
he endeavoured to drag the Heraclida) from the altar of 
mercy, and in whose honour they instituted annual games, 
continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anthemocritus, the 
Athenian herald, killed by the Megarenses, who never recov- 
ered the impiety. See Storia delle arti, etc., tom. ii. pp. 203, 
204, 205, 206, 207. lib. ix. cap. ii. 

4 Storia, etc., tom. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 

5 "Vulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligi 
quantum restat anima;." Plin. Nat. Hist, xxxiv. cap. 8. 

6 Antiq. tom. iii. par. 2. tab. 155. 

7 Race. Stat. tab. 64. 

8 Mus. Capitol, tom. iii. p. 154. edit. 1755. 

9 Julius Cffisar, who rose by the fall of the ari^itocracy, 
brought Fuiius Leptinus and A. Calenus upon the otena. 

10 Tertullian ; " certe quidem et innocentes gladiat'J-es is 
ludum veniunt, ut voluptatis publico hostia? <;ant " Just. 
Lips. Saturn. Sermon, lib. ii ^'ap. iii. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



129 



rom the professional gladiators. Aurelian and Claudius 
supplied great numbers of these unfortunate victims ; 
the one after his triumph, and the other on the pretext 
of a reoellion.i No war, says Lipsius,^ was ever so de- 
structive to the human race as these sports. In spite 
of the laws of Constantine and Const ans, gladiatorial 
shovrs survived the old estabhshed religion more than 
seventy years ; but they owed their final extinction to 
the courage of a Christian. In the year 404, on the ka- 
lends of January, they were exhibiting the shows in the 
Flavian amphitheatre before the usual immense con- 
coui-se of people. Almachius or Telemachus, an eastern 
monk, who had travelled to Rome intent on his holy 
purpose, rushed into the midst of the area, and endea- 
voured to separate the combatants. The praetor Alypius, 
a person incredibly attached to these games,^ gave instant 
orders to the gladiators to slay him ; and Telemachus 
gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, 
which surely has never, either before or since, been 
awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorius immedi- 
ately abolished the shows, which were never afterwards 
revived. The story is told by Theodoret * and Cassiodo- 
rus,* ojid seems worthy of credit, notwithstanding its 
place in the Roman martyrology.^ Besides the torrents 
of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the amphi- 
theatres, the circus, the forums, and other public places, 
gladiators were introduced at feasts, and tore each other 
to pieces amidst the supper tables, to the great delight 
and applause of the guests. Yet Lipsius permits him- 
self to suppose the loss of courage, and the evident de- 
generacy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the 
abolition of these bloody spectacles.'' 

Note 61. Stanza cxlii. 

Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted 
" he has it,'''' "hoc habet," or " habet." The wounded 
combat-ant dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the 
edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had 
fought well, the people saved him; if otherwise, or as 
they happened to be inclined, they turned down their 
thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so 
savage, that they were impatient if a combat lasted 
longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The 
emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished : and 
it is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that 
he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spec- 
tacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in other words, 
handed them over to be slain. A similar ceremony is 
observed at the Spanish bull- fights. The Magistrate pre- 



1 Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel.; anJ, in vit. Claud, ibid. 

2 " Credo, imo scio, 'nullum belltim tantam cladem vastiti 
emque eeneri humano intulisse, quam hos ad voluptatem 
ludos." Just. Lips. ibid. Ub. i. cap. xii. 

3 Auffustjnus, (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) " Alypiumsuum 
eladialorii spectaculi inhiatu incredibiliter abreotum," scribit. 
Ibid. lib. i. cap. xii. 

4 Hist Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 

5 Cassiod. Tripartita. 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

(5 Baronius ad ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jan 
See Maranironi delle memoriesacree profane dell' Amfiteatro 
Flavio. p. 25. edit. 1716. 

7 " Quod 1 non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod habuisse censes 
ad virtutem 1 Magnum. Tempera nostra, nosque ipsos videa- 
mus. OppiJum ccce unum alterumve captum, direptum est 
*umultus circa nos, non in nobis : et tamen concidimus et tur- 
Damur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos meditata sapieniite stu- 
dial ubi ille animus qui possit dicere, si fractus illabatur 
mrbisl^^ etc. ibid., lib. ii. cap. xxv. The prototype of Mr. 
Windham's panegyric on bull-baiting. 

P 22 



sides; and, after the horsemen and piccadores have 
fought the bull, the matadore steps forward and bows 
to him for permission to kill the animal. If the bull has 
done his duty by killing two or three horses, or a man, 
which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, thi 
ladies w^ave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. 
The wounds and death of the horses are accompanied 
with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of 
delight, especially from the female portion of the audi- 
ence, including those of the gentlest blood. Every thing 
depends on, habit. The author of Childe Harold, the 
writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, 
who have certainly in other days borne the sight of a 
pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, in the 
governor's box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Ma- 
ria, opposite to Cadiz. Tlie death of one or two horses 
completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman p'-e- 
sent, observing them shudder and look paie, noticed 
that unu.sual reception of so delightful a sport to some 
young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued 
their applauses as another horse fell bleeding to the 
ground. One bull killed three horses off his own horns. 
He was saved by acclamations, which were redoubled 
when it was known he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with see- 
ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to 
look at a horse galloping round an arena with his 
bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the spec 
tacle and spectators with horror and disgust. 

Note 62. Stanza cxliv. 
Like laurels on the bald first Cfflsar's head. 
Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particu- 
larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which en- 
abled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. 
He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror 
of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger 
at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
shotild we without the help of the historian. 

Note 63. Stanza cxlv. 

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand," etc. 

This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman 

Empire : and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in 

the Historical Illustrations to the IV th Canto of Childe 

Harold. 

Note 64. Stanza cxlvi. 

spared and blest by time. 

" Though plundered of all its brass, except the rmg 
which was necessary to preserve the aperture above, 
though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes 
flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no 
monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as 
this rotunda. It passed with httle alteration from the 
Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient were 
its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, 
ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their de- 
sign as a model of the Catholic church." 

Forsyth's Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. 137. seo. ediu 

Note 65. Stanza cxlvii. 

And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour'd fornf s, whose busts around them close 

The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for thtt 

busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished men. 

The flood of light which once fell through the large orn 

above on the whole circle of divinities, now s.'unes or 



130 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



a numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of 
whom have been almost deified by the veneration of 
their couiitrymon. 

Note 66. Stanza cxlviii. 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of 
the Roman Daughter, which is recalled to the traveller, 
by the site or pretended site of that adventure now 
shown at the church of St. Nicholas in carcere. The dif- 
ficulties attending the full belief of the tale, are stated 
in Historical Illustrations, etc. 

Note 67. Stanza clii. 
Turn to the mole which Hadrian rear'd on high. 
The castle of St. Angelo. See Historical Illustra- 
tions. 

Note 68. Stanza cliii. 
But lo I the dome — tlie vast and wondrous dome. 
This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St. Peter. For a measurement of the com- 
parative length of this basilica, and the other great 
churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, 
and the Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. page 125, 
et seq. chap. iv. 

Note 69. Stanza clxxi. 

-the strange fate 



Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 

Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 

heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in 

means and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; and, — " the 

greatest is behind," — Napoleonlives a prisoner. To these 

sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 

of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 

Note 70. Stanza clxxiii. 

Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills. 

The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 

Egeria, and, from the shades which embosomed the 

temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive 

appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening's 

ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. 

Note 71. Stanza clxxiv. 



-and afar 



The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast, etc. etc. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, 
which has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, 
the prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the 
cited stanza : the Mediterranean ; the whole scene pf 
the latter half of the .^neid ; and the coast from beyond 
the mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circaeum 
and the Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at 
the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tuscultmri of Prince Lucien 
Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the actual 
pite, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. 
At present it has lost something of its credit, except for 
yie Domenichinos. Nine monks, of the Greek order, 
?ive there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's sum- 
mer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is on the 
summit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich re- 
mams of Tusculum have been found there, besides 
Bcventy-two statues of different merit and preservation, 
• ml seven busfc.. 



From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
embosomed m which lies the long valley of Rustica, 
There are several circumstances which tend to establish 
the identity of this valley with the " Usiica^^ of Horace : 
and it seems possible that the mosaic pavement which 
the peasants uncover by throwing up the earth of a vine- 
yard, may belong to his villa. Rustica is pronounced 
short, not according to our stress upon — " Usticm 
cubantis.''^ — It is more rational to think that we are 
wrong, than that the inhabitants of this secluded valley 
have changed their tone in this word. The addition of 
the consonant prefixed is nothing : yet it is necessary to 
be aware that Rustica may be a modern name which 
the peasants may have caught from the antiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll 
covered with chesnut trees. A stream runs down tho 
valley, and although it is not true, as said m the guide- 
books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a 
village on a rock at i\Q head of the valley which is so 
denominated, and which may have taken its name from 
the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a 
peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing SCO. 
On the banks of the Anio, a httle before you turn up 
into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the 
viUa, is a town called Vico-varo, another favourable 
coincidence with the Varia of the poet. At the end 
of the valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, 
crowned with a httle town called Bardela. At the foot 
of this hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost 
absorbed in a wide sandy bed before it reaches the Anio. 
Nothing can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, 
whether in a metaphorical or direct sense : 

" Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
Quem Mandela bibit rugosus frigore pagus. 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it 
reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow lilce 
a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an 
hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is 
shov\Ti, does seem to be the site of the fane of Vacuna, 
and an inscription foimd there tells that this temple of 
the Sabine victory was repaired by Vespasian.' With 
these helps, and a position corresponding exactly to 
every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, 
we may feel tolerably secure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Cam- 
panile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended 
Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain 
Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed 
land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this 
Bandusia rises, 

" Tu frigus amabile 

Fessis vomere tauris 
PraDbes, et pecori vago." 

The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pave- 
ment, which they call " Oradina," and which flows down 
the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence trickles 
over into the Digentia. But we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," 
by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange that 



1 IMP. C/ESAR VESPASIANVS 

PONTIFEX MAXFMVS. TRIE. 

POTEST. CENSOR. /EDEM 

VICTORI^E. VETVSTATE ILLAFSAM. 

SVA. LMPENSA. RESTITVIT. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



131 



any one should have thought Bandusia a fountain of the 
Digentia — Horace has not let drop a word of it ; and 
this immortal spring has, in fact, been discovered in pos- 
session of the holders of many good things in Italy, the 
monks. It was attached to the church of St. Gervais 
and Protais, near Venusia, where it was most likely to 
oe found.' We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller 
in finding the occasional pine still pendant on the poetic 
villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but there 
are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mistook, 
for the tree in the ode. ^ The truth is, that the pine is 
now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and 
it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy accliv- 
ities of the valley of Rustica. Horace probably had one 
of them in the orchard close above his farm, immediately 
overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at some 
distance from his abode. The tourist may have easily 
supposed himself to have seen this pine figured in the 
above cypresses, for the orange and lemon-trees which 
throw such a bloom over his description of the royal 
gardens at Naples, unless they have been since displaced, 
were assuredly only acacias and other common garden 
shrubs. ' The extreme disappointment experienced by 
choosing the Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy, must 
be allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it 
is asserted without fear of contradiction, will be con- 
firmed by every one who has selected the same con- 
ductor through the same country. This author is, in fact, 
one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers that 
have in our times attained a temporary reputation, and is 
very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks of ob- 
jricts which he must be presumed to have seen. His 
errors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright 
misstatement, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion 
that he had either never visited the spots described, or 
nad trusted to the fidelity of former writers. Indeed the 
Classical Tour has every characteristic of a mere com- 
pilation of former notices, strung together upon a very 
slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out 
by those decorations which are so easily supplied by a 
systematic adoption of all the commonplaces of praise, 
applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- 
brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, 
and such may experience some salutary excitement in 
ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. 
It must be said, however, that polish and weight are 
apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the 
pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge 
round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there 
was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. 
The love of virtue and of hberty, which must have dis- 
tinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages of 
Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recom- 
mendatory either in an author or his productions, is very 
conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these 
generous qualities are the foliage of such a performance, 
and may be spread about it so prominently and pro- 
'usely, as to embarrass those who wish to see and find 
the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 



J See Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 

2 See Classical Tour, etc. chap. vii. p. 250. vol. ii. 

3 " Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the 
royal garden, laid out in parterres, and walks shaded by rows 
of orange-trees." Classical Tour, etc., chdp. xi. vol ii oct. 



exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work 
something more and better than a book of travels, but 
they have not made it a book of travels ; and this ob- 
servation appUes more especially to that enticing methou 
of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introductio/* 
of the same GaUic Helot to reel and bluster before the 
rising generation, and terrify it into decency by the 
display of all the excesses of the revolution. An ani 
mcsity against atheists and regicides in general, an 
Frenchmen specifically, may be honourable, and may 
be useful, as a record ; but that antidote should either 
be administered in any work rather than a tour, or, at 
least, should be served up apart, and not so mixed with 
the whole mass of information and reflection, as lo give 
a bitterness to every page : for who would choose to 
have the antipathies of any man, however just, for his 
travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he aspires to 
the credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes 
which may take place in the country which he describes ; 
but his reader may very fairly esteem all his political 
portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, tJie 
moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if 
they obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, 
or governors, is meant to be here offered; but it is 
stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change ope- 
rated, either by the address of the late imperial system, 
or by the disappointment of every expectation by those 
who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so 
considerable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. 
Eustace's Antigalhcan philippics entirely out of date, 
but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency 
and candour of the author himself. A remarkable ex- 
ample may be found in the instance of Bologna, over 
whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, 
the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and 
revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. 
Bm-ke. Now, Bologna is at this moment, and has 
been for some years, notorious amongst the states of 
Italy for its attachment to revolutionary principles, an«i 
was almost the only city which made any demonstra • 
tions in favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change 
may, however, have been made since Mr. Eustace 
visited this country; but the traveller whom he has 
thrilled with horror at the projected stripping of the 
copper from the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much 
relieved to find that sacrilege out of the power of the 
French, or any other plunderers, the cupola being cov- 
ered with lead. ' 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had 
not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, 
it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, 
that, however it may adorn his library, it will oe of little 
or no service to him in his carriage ; and if the judgment 
of those critics had hitherto been suspended, no attempt 
would have been made to anticipate their decision. As 
it is, those who stand in the relation of posterity to 
Mr. Eustace, may be permitted to appeal from cotein- 
porary praises, and are perhaps more likely to bt; 'ust 



1 ' ' What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather th^ hor- 
ror of my reader, when I inform him the Fiench 

Committee turned its attention to Saint Peter'S; and empluyeo 
a company of .Tews to estimate and purchase the gold, silver 
and bronze, that adorn the inside of the edifice, as well as 
the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the outside. 
Chap. iv. p. 130. vol. ii. The story about the Jews is poai 
lively denied at Kome. 



IJ-2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



in jiropoition as the causes of love and hatred are the j 
farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, 
been made before the above remarks were written ; for 
one of the most respectable of the Florentine publishers, 
wno had been persuaded b\' the repeated inquiries of 
uiose on their journey southwards, to reprint a cheap 
eauion of the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring 



advice of returning travellers, inducea lo aoanclon his 
design, althoujih he had already arranjreJ his types ai'd 
paper, and had struck off one or two of the first sr.eeis. 
The writer of these notes would wish to ];art (like 
]Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the Car- 
dinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend the 
same discreet silence to their humble partisans. 



A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throsvs 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes— 
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring. 
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting. 

MOORE. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF AD:\nRATION OF HIS GENIUS 

RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP; 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is 
founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
East than formerly; either because the ladies are 
more circumspect than in the " olden time ;" or he- 
cause the Christians have better fortune, or less en- 
terprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
adventures of a female slave, Avho was thrown, in the 
Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time 
the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten back 
from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some 
time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The deser- 
tion of the INIainotes, on being refused the plunder of 
M'.sitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, 
and to the desolation of the ^Nlorea, during which the 
cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even 
m the aimals of the faithful. 



THE GLIOUR. 



No breath of air to break the wave 
I'hat, rolls below the Athenian's grave. 
That tomb ' which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
b'irst greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o er tne land he saved in vain ; 
When shall such hero live again ? 
**♦♦*♦ 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimphng. Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crj'stal of the seas. 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odours there ! 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale. 
Sultana of the nightingale," 
The maid for whom his melody. 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows. 
Far from the winters of the west. 
By every breeze and season blest. 
Returns the sweets by Nature given. 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there. 
And many a shade that love might share. 
And many a grotto, meant for rest. 
That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
Whose bark in shellering cove below 
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow 
Till the gay mariner's gu.tar ' 
li heard, and seen the evening star ; 



THE GIAOUR. 13.=^ 


riien stealing with the muffled oar, 


Was freedom's home or glory's grave ! 


Far shaded by the rocky shore, 


Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 


Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 


That this is all remains of thee ? 


And turn to groans his roundelay. 


Approach, thou craven crouching slave- 


Strange — that where Nature loved to trace. 


Say, is not this Thermopyls ? 


A.S if for gods, a dwelling-place, 


These waters blue that round you lave, 


And every charm and grace hath mLx'd 


Oh servile offspring of the free — 


Within the paradise she fk'd, 


Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 


There man, enamour'd of disn-css, 


The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 


Should mar it into wilderness, 


These scenes, their story not unknown, 


And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 


Arise, and make again your own ; 


That tasks not one laborious hour ; 


Snatch from the ashes of your sires 


Nor claims the culture of his hand 


The embers of their former fires ; 


To bloom along the fairy land. 


And he who in the strife expires 


But springs as to preclude his care. 


Will add to theirs a name of feai 


And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 


That tyranny shall quake to hear. 


Strange — that where all is peace beside 


And leave his sons a hope, a fame 


There passion riots in her pride. 


They too will rather die than shame : 


And lust and rapine wildly reign 


For freedom's battle once begun, 


To darken o'er the fair domain. 


Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son. 


It is as though the fiends prevail'd 


Though baffled oft, is ever won. 


Against the seraphs they assail'd. 


Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 


And, flx'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 


Attest it many a deathless age ! 


The freed inheritors of hell ; 


While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 


So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 


Have left a nameless pyramid, 


So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 


Thy heroes, though the general doom 




Hath swept the colum.n from their tomb, 


He who hath bent him o'er the dea(l, 


A mightier monument conmiand. 


Ere the first day of death is fled. 


The mountains of their native land ! 


The first dark day of nothingness, 


There points thy muse to stranger's eye 


The last of danger and distress, 


The graves of those that cannot die ! 


(Before decay's effacing fingers 


'T were long to tell, and sad to trace, 


Have swept the lines where beauty lingers). 


Each step from splendour to disgrace ; 


And mark'd the mild angelic air. 


Enough— no foreign foe could quell 


The rapture of repose that's-there, 


Thy soul, till from itself it fell; 


The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 


Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 


The languor of the placid cheek, 


To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 


And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 




That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 


What can he tell who treads thy shore 1 


And but for that chill, changeless brow, 


No legend of thine olden time, 


Where cold obstruction's apathy '*■ 


No theme on which the muse might soar, 


Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 


High as thine own in days of yore. 


As if to him it could impart 


When man was worthy of thy clime. 


The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 


The hearts within thy valleys bred. 


Yes, but for these, and these alone, 


The fiery souls that might have led 


Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 


Thy sons to deeds sublime, 


He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 


Now crawl from cradle to the grave. 


So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 


Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, 


The first, last look by death reveal'd ! ^ 


And callous, save to crime ; 


Such is the aspect of this shore ; 


Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 


'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 


Mankind, where least above the brutes , 


So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 


Without even savage virtue blest. 


We start, for soul is wanting there. 


Without one free or valiant breast. 


Hers is the lovehness in death. 


Still to the neighbouring ports they wail 


That parts not quite with parting breath ; 


Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 


But beauty with that fearful bloom, 


In this the subtle Greek is found, 


That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 


For this, and this alone, renown' d. 


Expression's last receding ray. 


In vain might liberty invoke 


A gilded halo hovering round decay. 


The spirit to its bondage broke, 


The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 


Or raise the neck that courts the yok« 


Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 


No more her sorrows I bewail, 


FVhjch gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! 


Yet this will be a mournful tale, 




And they who listen may believe. 


Clime of the unfor gotten brave ! 


Who heard it first had cause to gnevo. 


Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
P2 


- 



f34 



EYROxN S WORKS. 



Far, dark, along the blue-sea glancing, 
The sliadows of the rocks advancing. 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island- pirate or Mainote ; 
And, fearful for his light caique. 
He shuns the near, but doubtful creek: 
Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil. 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the o:.r, 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely hght 
That best becomes an eastern night. 
+ ** + ** + 
Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound, 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foam that streaks the courser's side 
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide ; 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest. 
There 's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! ' 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
As meteor-like thou glidest by, 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Olhman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hastened, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, 
His aspect and his air impress'd 
A treubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep. 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him fror^i mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along ; but, ere he pass'd, 
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks hb o'er the olive-wood ? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
The mosque's high lamps are quivering still : 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike, ^ 
Tl e flashes of each joj^ous peal 
Are seen to prove the PJoslem's zeal. 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
io night the Bairam feast's begun ; 
To- night — but wno and what art thou, 
O' foreign garb and fearful brow? 



And what are these to thine or f:iec, 

That thou shouldst either pau-ie or flee ? 

He stood — some dread was on his face, 

Soon hatred settled in its plac'j : 

It rose not with the reddening flush 

Of transient anger's darkening blush. 

But pale as marble o'er ihe tomb. 

Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 

His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, 

He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 

And sternly shook his hand on high, 

As doubting to return or fly : 

Impatient of his flight delay'd. 

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 

Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade 

That sound had burst his waking dream, 

As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 

The spur hath lanced his courser's sidts , 

Awaj', away, for life he rides ; 

Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed, ' 

Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 

The rock is doubled, and the shore 

Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 

The crag is won, no more is seen 

His Christian crest and haughty mien. 

'T was but an instant he restrain'd 

That fiery barb so sternly rem'd : 

'T was but a mom.ent that he stood, 

Then sped as if by death pursued ; 

But in that instant o'er his soul 

Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 

And gather in that drop of time 

A life of pain, an age of crime. 

O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 

Such moment pours the grief of years : 

What felt he then, at once opprest 

By all that most distracts the breast ? 

That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 

Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 

Though in time's record nearly nought, 

It was eternity to thought ! 

For infinite as boundless space 

The thought that conscience must embrace, 

Which in itself can comprehend 

Woe without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent. 
To turn a palace to a tomb : 
He came, he went, like the simoom, '° 
That harbinger of fate and gloom. 
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled. 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
The bat builds in his haram bower ; 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-towei ; 
Tlie wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
With baffled thirst, and famin'^ f'rim • 



THE GIAOUR. .36 


For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 


The burthen ye so gently bear, 


Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread, 


Seems one that claims your utmost carp, 


'T was sweet of yore to see it play 


And, doubtless, nolds some precious treight, 


And chase the sultriness of day, 


My humble bark would gladly wait." 


As, springing high, the silver dew 




In w^hirls fantastically flew, 


"Thou speakest sooth, thy sldfl" r.nmoor. 


And flung luxurious coolness round 


And waft us from the silent shore ; 


The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 


Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 


'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 


The nearest oar that's scatter'd by ; 


To view the wave of watery light, 


And midway to those rocks where sleep 


And hear its melody by night, 


The channell'd waters dark and deep, 


And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 


Rest from }^our task — so — bravely done, 


Around the verge of that cascade ; 


Our course has been right swiftly run; 


And oft upon his mother's breast 


Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow. 


That sound had harmonized his rest ; 


That one of " 


And oft had Hassan's youth along 


*****:» 


Its bank been soothed by beauty's song ; 




And softer seem'd each melting tone 


Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank. 


Of music mingled with its own. 


The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 


But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 


I watch'd it as it sank, methought 


Along the brink at twilight's close : 


Some motion from the current caught 


The stream that fiil'd that font is fled— 


Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 


The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 


That chequer'd o'er the living stream : 


And here no more shall human voice 


I gazed, till vanishing from view, 


Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; 


Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 


The last sad note that swell'd the gale 


Still less and less, a speck of white 


Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 


That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sigh' j 


That quenched in silence, all is still, 


And all its hidden secrets sleep. 


But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 


Known but to genii of the deep. 


Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 


W^hich,. trembling in tlieir coral caves 


No hand shall close its clasp again. 


They dare not whisper to tlic waves. 


On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 


* * ♦ + + 


The rudest steps of fellow man — 




So here the very voice of grief 


As rising on its purple wing 


Might wake an echo like relief; 


The insect-queen I'' of eastern spring. 


At least 't would say, " all are not gone ; 


O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 


"There lingers life, though but in one—" 


Invites the young pursuer near, 


For many a gilded chamber 's there, 


And leads him on from flower to flower 


Which solitude might well forbear ; 


A wear}' chase and wasted hour, 


W^ithin that dome as yet decay 


Then leaves him, as it soars on hign, 


Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 


With panting heart and tearful eye : 


But gloom is gathered o'er the gate, 


So beauty lures the full-grown child. 


Nor there the fakir's self will wait; 


With hue as bright, and wing as wild , 


Nor there will wandering dervise stay. 


A chase of idle hopes and fears. 


For bounty cheers not his delay ; 


Begun in folly, closed in tears. 


Nor there will weary stranger lialt 


If won, to equal ills betray'd. 


To bless the sacred " bread and salt." " 


Woe waits the insect and the maid , 


Alike must wealth and poverty 


A life of pain, the loss of peace, 


Pass heedless and unheeded by, 


From infant's play, and man's caprice 


For courtesy and pity died 


The lovely toy so fiercely sought 


With Hassan on the mountain side. 


Hath lost its charm by being caught. 


His roof, that refuge unto men. 


For every touch that wooed its stay 


Is desolation's hungry den. 


Hath brush'd its brightest hues awaj", 


'^he guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labour, 


Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 


Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! '^ 


'T is left to fly or fall alone. 


* * * + + :,c 


With wounded wing, or bleeding breast. 




Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 


I hear the sound of coming feet, 


Can this with faded pinion soar 


But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 


From rose to tulip as before ? 


More near— each turban I can scan. 


Or beauty, blighted in an houi, 


And silver-sheathed ataghan ; '' 


Find joy Avithin her broken bower .' 


The foremost of the band is seen, 


No : gayer insects fluttering by 


An emir by his garb of green: »* 


Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that d.e. 


" Ho ! who art thou?— this low salam^* 


And lovelier things have mercy shovm 


Replies of Moslem faith I am. 


To every failing but their own, 



I3G 



BYRON'S V/ORKS 



And cverv woe a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 



The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
fn circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, 
Till, inly search'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows. 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain. 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; " 
So \\Tithes the mind remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven. 
Darkness above, despair beneath. 
Around it flame, wthin it death ! 

****** 

Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumours in our city say 
[Jpon that eve she fled away. 
When Rhamazan's '^ last sun was set. 
And, flashing from each minaret, 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
'Twas then she went as to the bath. 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flo^vn her master's rage. 
In hkeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaoun 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd. 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque. 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell. 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
But others say, that on that night. 
By pale Phingari's'^ trembling light. 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 



Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell. 
But gaze on that of the gazelle, 
it will ass.';a^ thy fancy well ; 
As -arge, as languishingly dark, 
3ut soul bearn'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.'^" 



Yea, soul, and should our prophet sav 

That form was nought but breathing clay. 

By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 

Though on Al-Sirat's-' arch I stood, 

Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 

With paradise within my view, 

And all his houris beckoning through. 

Oh ! who young Leila's glance could lead. 

And keep that portion of his creed -^ 

Which saith that woman is but dust, 

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 

On her might muftis gaze, and own 

That through her eye the Immortal shone j 

On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

The young pomegranate's-^ blossom.s strew 

Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 

Her hair in hyacinthine^'' flow. 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet. 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth CIrcassia's daughter. 

The loveUest bird of Franguestan ! ^^ 

As rears her crest the ruffled svran. 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride. 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her male — stern Hassan, who was he "^ 
Alas ! that name was not for thee I 

**** + » 

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en, 
With twenty vassals in his train. 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war. 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood. 
When in the pass the rebels stood. 
And few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Fame's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pacha wore. 
Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with go.fc. 
Even robbers tremble to behold. 
'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side ; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower. 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
****** 

The sun's last rays are on the hill. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear. 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 



THE GIAOUR. 



137 



In cities lodged too near his lord, 

A.nd trembling for his secret hoard 

Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, m deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



The foremost Tartar's m the gap. 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak. 
And theirs may be a feast to-night. 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And icft a channel bleak and bare. 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray. 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 



They reach the grove of pine at last : 
" Bismillah ! ^e now the peril 's past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain. 
And there we '11 prick our steeds amain :" 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein. 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again: 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound. 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their coursers' harness leant, 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock. 
And there await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course. 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Then curl'd his very beard ^'^ with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I 've scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
And now the foe their covert quit. 
And call his vassals to submit j 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword. 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! '• 

0O 



In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear. 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on Avith foreign brand. 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
" 'T is he ! 't is he ! I know him now ; 
I know him by his paUid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye ^^ 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb. 
Apostate from his own vile faith. 
It shall not save him from the death : 
'T is he ! well met in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!" 

As rolls the river into ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
Beats back the current many a rood. 
In curling foam and mingling flood. 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave. 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkUng spray, in thundering clash. 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet. 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar. 
And peaUng wide or ringing near 
Its echoes on the throbbing ear. 
The death-shot hissing from afar. 
The shock, the shout, the groan of w ar 
Reverberate along that vale. 
More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strifo, 
That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
Ah ! fondly youthfi 1 hearts can press. 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But love itself could never pant 
For all that beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervour hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes. 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall loose their hold 
Friends meet to part ; love laughs at faith . 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
♦ ♦**** + 

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spil' ; 
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
His turban far behind him roll'd. 
And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
And crimson as those clouds of mom 
That, streak'd with dusky red, portena 
The day shall have a stormy end ; 
A stain on every bush that bore 
A fragment of his nalampore,'*' 







i:38 BYRON'S WORKS 


His breast with wounds unnuniber'd riven, 


Whereon can now be scarcely read 


His back to earth, his face to heaven, 


The Koran verse that mourns the d^.ad. 


Fallen Hassan lies— his unclosed eye 


Point out tlie spot where Hassan fell 


i'et lowering on his enemy, 


A victim in that lonely dell. 


As if the hour that seal'd his fate 


There sleeps as true an Osmanli 


Surviving left hid quenchless hate ; 


As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 


And o'er him bends that foe with brow 


As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 


As dark as his that bled below. — 


Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 


*♦***♦» 


In orisons resumed anew ^ 




At solemn sound of "Alia Hu ! " " 


" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 


Yet died he by a stranger's hand. 


But his shall be a redder grave ; 


And stranger in his native land ; 


Her spirit pointed well the steel 


Yet died he as in arms he stood. 


Which taught that felon heart to feel. 


And unavenged, at least in blood. 


He call'd the Prophet, but his power 


But him the maids of paradise 


Was vain against the vengeful Giaour 


Impatient to their halls invite, 


He call'd on Alia — but the word 


And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 


Arose unheeded or unheard. 


On him shall glance for ever bright ; 


Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 


They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 


Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 


And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 


I walch'd my tmie, I leagued ■with these, 


Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 


[ The traitor m his turn to seize ; 


Is worthiest an inunortal bower. 


My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done. 


****** 


And now I go — but go alone." 




****** 


But thou, false mfidel ! shalt writhe 


****** 


Beneath avenging Monkir's " scythe ; 




And from its torment 'scape alone 


The browzing camels' bells are tinkling : 


To wander round lost Eblis' ^^ throne ; 


His mother look'd from her lattice high — 


And fire unquench'd, unquenchable. 


She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 


Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 


The pasture green beneath her eye. 


Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 


She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 


The tortures of that inward hell ! 


-"Tis twiUght — sure his train is nigh." 


But first, on earth as vampire ^' sent. 


She could not rest in the garden-bower, 


Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 


But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower - 


Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 


' Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 


And suck the blood of all thy race ; 


Nor shrinii they from the summer heat ; 


There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 


Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift? 


At midnight drain the stream of hfe ; 


Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 


Yet loathe the banquet v/hich perforce 


1 Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 


Must feed thy Uvid living corse : 


Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow. 


Thy victims ere they yet expire 


I And warily the steep descends. 


Shall know the demon for their sire. 


And now within the valley bends ; 


As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 


i And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — 


Thy flow^ers are wither'd on the stem. 


How could I deem his courser slow ? 


But one that for thy crime must fall. 


Right well my largess shall repay 


The youngest, most beloved of all, 


His welcome speed, and weary way." 


Shall bless thee with a fatherh name- 


The Tartar lighted at the gate. 


That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 


But scarce upheld his fainting weight : 


Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 


His swarthy visage spake distress, 


Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last sparky 


But this might be from weariness ; 


And the last glassy glance must view 


His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 


Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 


But these might be from his courser's side ; 


Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 


He drew the token from his vest- 


The tresses of her yellow hair. 


Angel of Death ! 't is Hassan's cloven crest ! 


Of which in life a lock, when shorn, 


His calpac ^ ' rent — his caftan red — 


Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 


" Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed : 


But now is borne away by thee. 


Me, not from mercy, did they spare^ 


Memorial of thine agony ! 


But this empurpled pledge to bea.. 


Wet with thine own best blood shall drip '* 


Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt ' 


Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 


Woe to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 


Then, stalking to thy sullen grave. 


* ♦ » * * 


Go— and with Gouls and Afrits rave : 




Till these in horror shrink away 


A turban '^ carved in coarsest stone, 


From spectre more accursed than thev J 


A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 

i 


♦ * ♦ ♦ ^ 



THE GIAOUR. 139 


" How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 


Not oft to smile descendeth he, 


His features I have scann'd before 


And when he doth 't is sad to see 


In mine own land : 't is many a year, 


That he but mocks at misery. 


Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 


How that pale lip will curl and quiver ! 


I saw him urge as fleet a steed 


Then fix once more as if for ever : 


As ever served a horseman's need. 


As if his sorrow or disdain 


But once I saw that face, yet then 


Forbade him e'er to smile again. 


It was so mark'd with inward pain, 


Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 


I could not pass it by again ; 


From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 


.t breathes the same dark spirit now, 


But sadder still it were to trace 


As death were stamp'd upon his brow." 


What once were feelings in that face : 




Time hath not yet the features fix'd. 


" 'T is twice three years at summer-tide 


But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 


Since first among our freres he came ; 


And there are hues not alwavs faded, 


And here it soothes him to abide 


Which speak a mind not all degraded, 


For some dark deed he will not name. 


Even by the crimes through which it waded : 


But never at our vesper prayer, 


The common crowd but see the gloom 


Nor e'er before confession chair 


Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 


Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 


The close observer can espy 


Incense or anthem to the skies, 


A noble soul, and lineage high : 


But broods within his cell alone. 


Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain. 


His faith and race alike unknown. 


Which grief could change, and guilt could stu'n, 


The sea from Paynim land he crost, 


It was no vulgar tenement 


And here ascended from the coast ; 


To which such lofty gifts were lent. 


Fet seems he not of Othman race. 


And still with little less than dread 


But only Christian in his face: 


On such the sight is riveted. 


I M judge him some stray renegade. 


The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 


Repentant of the change he made, 


Will scarce delay the passer-by ; 


Save that he shuns our holy shrine. 


The tower by war or tempest bent, 


Nor tastes the sacred bread and vnno. 


While yet may frown one battlement. 


Great largess to these walls he brought, 


Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; 


And thus our abbot's favour bought : 


Each ivied arch, and pillar lone. 


But, were I prior, not a day 


Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 


Should brook such stranger's further stay, 


" His floating robe around him foldmg, 


Or, pent within our penance cell. 


Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle . 


Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 


With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 


Much in his visions mutters he 


The rites that sanctify the pile. 


Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 


But when the anthem shakes the choir, 


Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, . 


And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 


Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 


By yonder lone and wavering torch 


On cliflf he hath been kno\vn to stand, 


His aspect glares within the porch ; 


And rave as to some bloody hand 


There will he pause till all is done — 


Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 


And hear the prayer, but utter none. 


Invisible to all but him, 


See — by the half-illumined wall 


1 Which beckons onward to his grave, 


His hood fly back, his dark hair fall. 


And lures to leap into the wave." 


That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 


»**««» 


As if the Gorgon there had bound 


****** 


The sablest of the serpent-braid 


Dark and unearthly is the scowl 


That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 


That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 


For he declines the convent oath. 


The flash of that dilating eye 


And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, 


Reveals too much of times gone by ; 


But wears our garb in all beside ; 


Though varying, indistinct its hue, 


And, not from piety but pride. 


Ofl will his glance the gazer rue, 


Gives wealth to walls that never heard 


For in it lurks that nameless spell 


Of his one holy vow nor word. 


Which speaks, itself unspeakable. 


Lo! — mark ye, as the harmony 


A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 


Peals louder praises to the sky. 


That claims and keeps ascendancy; 


That livid cheek, that stony air 


And like the bird whose pinions quake. 


Of mix'd defiance and despair! 


But cannot fly the gazing snake, 


Saint Francis, keep him fi-om the shrin^J " 


Will others quail beneath his look. 


Else may we dread the wrath divine 


Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 


Made manifest by awful sign. 


From him the half- affrighted friar 


If ever e\'il angel bore 


When met alone would fain retire. 


The form of mortal, such he woit : 


As if that eye and bitter smile 


By all my hope of sins forgiven, 


Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 


Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!* 





40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1"o love the softest hearts are pi()ne, 

But such can ne'er be all his own ; 

Too timid in his woes to share, 

Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 

And sterner hearts alone may feel 

The wound that time can never heal. 

The rugged metal of the mine 

Must L>urn before its surface shine, 

But plunged within the furnace-flame, 

It bends and melts — though still the same ; 

Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 

'T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breastplate for thine hour of need, 

Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 

But if a dagger's form it bear, 

Let those who shape its edge beware ! 

Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 

Can turn and tame the sterner heart; 

From these its form and tone are ta'en, 

And what they make it, must remain, 

But break — ^before it bend again. 

• •**** 

If solitude succeed to grief. 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 't were woe alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal. 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep. 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay ! 
It is as if the desert-bird,'^ 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream. 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void. 
The leafless desert of the mind. 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
liCss hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay. 
Unseen to drop by dull decay : — 
Better to sink beneath the shock. 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 

****** 

" Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer 

To bid the sins of others cease, 
Thyself without a crime or care, 

Sa\e transient ills that all must bear, 

Has oeen thy lot from youth to age ; 

And thou wil*. bless thee from the rage 



Of passions fierce and uncontrilPd, 

Such as thy penitents unfold. 

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 

Within thy pure and pitying breast. 

My days, though few, have pass'd bflovv 

In much of joy, but more of woe ; 

Yet still in hours of love or strife, 

I 've 'scaped the weariness ol life ; 

Now leagued with fnends, now girt by foes, 

I loathed the languor of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate. 

No more with hope or pride elate, 

I 'd rather be the thing that crawls 

Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 

Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 

Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 

Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 

For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. 

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still. 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 

My memory now is but the tomb 

Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 

Though better to have died with those 

Than bear a life of lingering woes. 

My spirits shrunk not to sustain 

The searching throes of ceaseless pain : 

Nor sought the self-accorded grave 

Of ancient fool and modern knave : 

Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 

And in the field it had been sweet. 

Had danger woo'd me on to move 

The slave of glory, not of love. 

I 've braved it — not for honour's boast ; 

I smile at laurels won or lost ; 

To such let others carve their way. 

For high renown, or hireling pay : 

But place again before my eyes 

Aught that I deem a worthy prize ; 

The maid I love, the man I hate. 

And I will hunt the steps of fate. 

To save or slay, as these require. 

Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 

Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 

Who would but do — what he hath done. 

Death is but what the haughty brave. 

The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 

Then let life go to him who gave : 

I have not quail'd to danger's brow 

When high and happy — need I now ? 
****** 

"I loved her, friar! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There's blood upon that din'.ed sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose : 
'T was shed for her, who died for me, 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
Nay, start not — no— nor bend thy knee. 

Nor midst my sins such act record : 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 



r ,.•■ : -. 

1 

THE GIAOUR. 14 


Ungrateful fool ! since hut for brands 


Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 


Well wielded in some hardy hands, 


If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain. 


\nd wounds by Galileans given, 


And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 


The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 


And all that I have felt, and feel. 


For him his Houris still might wait 


Betoken love — that love was mine, 


Impatient at the prophet's gate. 


And shown by many a bitter sign. 


[ loved her — love will find its way 


'T is true I could not whine nor sigh. 


Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, 


I knew but to obtain or die. 


liid if it dares enough, 't were hard 


I die — but first I have possess'd. 


»f passion met not some reward — 


And, come what may, I have been blest. 


No matter how, or where, or why, 


Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 


I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 


No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 


Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 


But for the thought of Leila slain, 


I wish she had not loved again. 


Give me the pleasure with the pain. 


She died~I dare not tell thee how ; 


So would I live and love again. 


But look — 't is written on my brow ! 


I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 


There read of Cain the curse and crime 


For him who dies, but her who died : 


In characters unworn by time : 


She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 


Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 


Ah ! had she but an earthly grave. 


Not mine the act, though I the cause. 


This breaking heart and throbbing head 


Yet did he but what I had done 


Should seek and share her narrow bed. 


Had she been false to more than one. 


She was a form of life and light. 


Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 


That, seen, became a part of sight ; 


But true to me, I laid him low : 


And rose where'er I tum'd mine eye. 


Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 


The morning-star of memory ! 


Her treachery was truth to me ; 




To me she gave her heart, that all 




Which tyranny can ne'er enthral j 


" Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 


And I, alas ! too late to save ! 


A spark of that immortal fire ■ 


Yet all I then could give, I gave, 


With angels shared, by Alia given, ; 


'T was some relief, our foe a grave. 


To lift from earth our low desire. 


His death sits lightly; but her fate 


Devotion wafts the mind above, 


Has made me — what thou well may'st hate. 


But heaven itself descends in love ; 


His doom was seal'd — he knew it well. 


A feeling from the Godhead caught, 


Vam'd by the voice of stem Taheer, 


To wean from self each sordid thought ; 


Deep in whose darkly-boding ear''" 


A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 


The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 


A glory circling round the soul ! 


As filed the troop to where they fell ! 


I grant my love imperfect, all 


He died too in the battle broil. 


That mortals by the name miscall ; 


A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 


Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 


One cry to Mahomet for aid. 


But say, oh say, hers was not guilt' 


One prayer to Alia all he made : 


She was my life's unerring light ; 


He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 


TAat quench'd, what beam shall break my ni^Ut ? 


I gazed upon him where he lay. 


Oh ! would it shone to lead me still. 


And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 


Although to death or deadliest ill ! 


Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel. 


Why marvel ye, if they who lose 


He felt not half that now I leel. 


This present joy, this future hope, 


I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 


No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 


The workings of a wounded mind ; 


In phrensy then their fate accuse : 


Each feature of that sullen corse 


In madness do those fearful deeds 


Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 


That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 


Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 


Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 


Despair upon his dying face ! 


Hath nought to dread from outward blow , 


The late repentance of that hour, 


Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 


When penitence hath lost her power 


Cares little into what abyss. 


To tear one terror from the grave, 


Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 


And will not soothe, and cannot save. 


To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 


****** 


I read abhorrence on thy brow. 


« The cold in clime are cold in blood, 


And this too was I born to bear ! 


Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 


'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, 


But mine was like the lava flood 


With havoc have I mark'd my way . 


That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 


But this was taught me by the dove. 


I cannot prate in puling strain 


To die — and know no second love. 


Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain: 


This lesson yet hath man to learn, 


[f changing cheek, and scorching vein, 

Q 


Taught by the thing he dares to snun. • 







H2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tlio bird that singrf w ithin the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys. 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or if it djth, in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth. 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'T is all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 
" And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 

But not the breath of human life : 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 

And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place. 
Shuddering I shi-unk from nature's face, 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know. 
And all my sins, and half my woe. 
But talk no more of penitence ; 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence : 
And if thy holy tale were true. 
The deed that's done can'st thou undo? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief.** 
My soul's estate in secret guess : 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When tliou canst bid my Leila live. 
Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand halh wrung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young. 
And calm the lonely honess : 
But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 

*' In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend. 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers 

I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send. 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorb'd like mine'allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'T is strange — he prophesied my doom. 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When prudence would his voice assume. 

Ana warn — I reck'd not what — the while : 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Thos« Ilcc'"n'^ scarcely mark'd before. 



Say — that his bodings came to pass, 
And he will start to hear their truth, 
And wish his words had not been sooih 
Tell liim, unheeding as I was. 

Through many a busy bitter scene 
Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away. 
If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame. 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame ? 
I do not ask him not to mourn. 
Such cold request might sound like scurn ; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old. 
And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind. 
The wreck by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 
****** 

" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam. 
No, father, no, 't was not a dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep. 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
I wish'd but for a single tear. 
As something welcome, new, and dear . 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still — 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
I would not, if J might, be blest ; 
I want no paradise, but rest. 
'T was then, I tell thee, father ! then 
I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
And shining in her white symar,'^^ 
As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her. 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark : 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark , 
And I, before its rays appear. 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wonder, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart. 
And clasp her to my desperate heart • 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp. 
No heart that beats reply to mine. 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest. 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 



THE GIAOUR. 



143 



Yet still 't is there ! in silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye- 
I knew 't was false — shs could not die ! 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me wild waves roU'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told mc — 't was a hideous tale ! 
I 'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a cabner grave, 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul, 
Than winds can waft, ^•»- Vaters roll ! 



** Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing ej^e could never shed. 
Then lay me vvith the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read. 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 
He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace. 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day : 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew. *' 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 132, line 3. 
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 
A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 
Note 2. Page 132, Une 22. 
Sultana of the nightingale. 
The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the "Bul- 
bul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 

Note 3. Page 132, line 40. 

Till the gay mariner's guitar. 

The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 

sailor by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a 

calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often 

hv dancing. 

Note 4. Page 133, line 40. 
Where cold obstruction's apathy. 
" Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
To he in cold obstruction." 

Measure for Measure, Act IH. 130. So. 2. 



Note 5. Page 133, line 48. 
The first, last look by death reveal'd. 
I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op 
portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
scription, but those who have, will probably retam a 
painful remembrance of that singular beauty whici. 
pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the dead^ 
a few hours, and but for a few hoiu's, after " the spirit 
is not there." It is to be remarked, in cases of 'violent 
death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always 
that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the 
sufferer's character ; but in death from a stab the coun- 
tenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and 
the mind its bias to the last. 

Note 6. Page 133, line 110. 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave 
of the seragho, and guardian of the women), who ap- 
points the Waywode. A pander and eimuch — these 
are not poUte, yet true appellations — now governs the 
governor of Athens ! 

Note 7. Page 134, Ime 23. 
'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour 
Infidel. 

Note 8. Page 134, line 58. 

In echoes of the far tophaike. 
" Tophaike," musket. — The Bairam is announced 
by the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Mosques, 
and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 
ball, proclaim it during the night. 

Note 9. Page 134, Ime 84. 
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed. 
Jerreed, or Djerrid, a bkmted Turkish javehn, which 
is darted from horseback with great force and precision. 
It is a favourite e.xercise of the Mussulmans ; but 1 
know not if it can be called a manly one, since the most 
e.xpert m the art are the Black Eunuchs of Constanti- 
nople — I thmk, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was 
the most skilful that came within my observation. 

Note 10. Page 134, line 115. 
He came, he went, like the simoom. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing hvingj 
and often alluded to in eastern poetry. 

Note 11. Page 135, Une 47. 
To bless the sacred " bread and salt." 
■ To partake of food, to break bread and salt with 
your host, insures the safety of the guest j even thouglj 
an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 

Note 12. Page 135, line 55. 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality 
are the first duties enjomed by Mahomet ; and, to say 
truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The 
first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a pan«e- 
gyric on his bounty ; the next on his valour. 

Note 13. Page 135, line 59. 

And silver-sheathed atagnau. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols m me 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver j aiio. 
among the wealthier, gilt or of gold. 



144 



BYRON S WORKS. 



Note 14. Page 135, line 61. 
An emir by his garb of green. 
Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's nu- 
merous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, 
faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
the necessity of good works : they are the worst of a 
very indifferent brood. 

Note 15. Page 135, line 62. 
"Ho ! who art tliou? — this low salam," etc. 
Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam ! peace be with you ; 
T)e with you peace — the salutation reserved for the 
faithful : — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey ; 
or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, good even ; 
and sometimes, " may your end be happy j" are the 
asual salutes. 

Note 16. Page 135, Ime 93. 
The insect-queen of eastern spring. 
The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
rare and beautiful of the species. 

Note 17. Page 136, Une 15. 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire. 
AFiudmg to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement : 
Dut others have actually brought in the verdict, "Felo 
de se." The scorpions £u-e surely interested in a speedy 
decision of the question ; as, if once fairly estabUshed 
as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live 
fts long as they think proper, without being martyred 
for the sake of a hypothesis. 

Note 18. Page 136, line 30. 
When Rhamazan's last sun was set 
The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
note 8. 

Note 19. Page 136, line 49. 
By paie Phingari's trembling light. 
Phingari, the moon. 

Note 20. Page 136, line 60. 
B'-i^'bt as the jewel of Giamschid. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendour, named 
Schebgprag, "the torch of night;" also, " the cup of 
the sun," etc. — In the first editions, " Giamschid " was 
written as a word of three syllables, so D'Herbelot 
has it ; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dis- 
syllable, and writes "Jamshid." I have left in the 
text the orthography of the one with the pronunciation 
of the other. 

Note 21. Page 136, line 64. 
Though on Al-Pirat's arch I stood. 
Al-Sirat, the bridge, of breadth less than the thread 
of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must 
fkate into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; 
but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell 
Itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful 
and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a " facilis 
ihscen^js Averni," not very pleasing in prospect to the 
iiexi passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for , 
■ np .lews and Christians. ' 

Note 22. fage 136, line 69. 
And keep that portion of his creed. 
A tuJgar error • the Koran allots at least a tliird of 



paradise to well-behaved women : but by far tne greattr 
number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own 
way, and exlude their moieties from heaven. Being 
enemies to Platonics, they cannot discern " any fitness 
of things" in the souls of the other sex, conceiving 
them to be superseded by the Houris. 

Note 23. Page 136, line 75. 
The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. 
An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though faiily 
stolen, be deemed "plus Arabe qu'en Arabic." 

Note 24. Page 136, line 77. 
Her hair in iiyacinthino flow. 
Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ;" as common a 
thought in the eastern poets, as it was among llio 
Greeks. 

Note 25. Page 136, line 87. 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 
" Franguestan," Circassia. 

Note 26. Page 137, line 26. 
" Bismillah ! now the peril 's past," etc. 
Bismillah — " In the name of God ;" the commence- 
ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of 
prayer and thanksgiving. 

Note 27. Page 137, line 51. 
Then curi'd his very beard with ire. 
A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a 
diplomatic audience, were not less lively with indigna- 
tion than a tiger cat's, to the horror of all the drago- 
mans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood 
erect of their own accord, and were expected every 
moment to change their colour, but at last condescended 
to subside, which probably saved more heads than they 
contained hairs. 

Note 28. Page 137, hne 61. 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 
" Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

Note 29. Page 137, line 70. 
I know him by the evil eye. 
The " evil eye," a common superstition in the Le- 
vant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet very 
singular, on those who conceive themselves affected . 

Note 30. Page 137, line 124. 
A fragment of his palampore. 
The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons of 
rank. 

Note 31. Page 138, line 51. 
His calpac rent — his caftan red. 
The " Calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of the 
head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms 
the turban. 

Note 32. Page 138, line 57. 
A turban carved in coarsest stone. 
The turban, piliar, and insciiptive verse, decorate 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery 
or the wilderness. In the mojntains you frequently 
pass similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, j'ou are in- 
formed, that they record some victim of rebeliion, 
plunder, or revenge. 

Note 33. Page 138, line 68, 
At solemn sound of "Ail'i Hu !" 
"Alia Hu !" the concluding w jrds of the M iezziri's 



THE GIAOUR. 



143 



call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior 
ot the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin 
has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the ef- 
fect is solemn and beautiful beyond all the beUs in 
Christendom. 

Note 34. Page 138, line 77. 

They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 

The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : 

—•'I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, and she 

waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries 

aloud. Come, kiss me, for I love thee," etc. 

Note 35. Page 138, line 82. 
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. 
Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, 
before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate 
and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- 
swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a 
scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till prop- 
erly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. 
The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but 
two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a 
small proportion to the remainder, their hands are al- 
ways full. 

Note 33. Page 138, line 84. 
To wander round lost Eblis' throne. 
Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

Note 37. Page 138, line 89. 
But first, on earth, as vampire sent. 

The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
?aiK. Honest Tournefo!-t tells a long story, which Mr. 
Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these 
*'Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is 
" Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being terri- 
fied by the scream of a child, which they imagined 
must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks 
never mention the word without horror. I find that 
" Broucolokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation 
—at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to 
the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil 
The moderns, however, use the word I mention. 
Note 38. Page 138, line 115. 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 

The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire 
The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul 
feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly 
attested. 

Note 39. Page 140, line 36. 
It is as if the desert-bird. 
The pehcan is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. 

Note 40.' Page 141, line 36. 

Deep in whose darkly-boding ear. 

This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met 

with downright second-sight in the east) fell once under 

my own oDservation. — On my third journey to Cape 

Jolonna early in 1811, as we passed through the defile 

'hat leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, 

observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, 

and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode 

pp and inquired. " We are in peril," he answered. 

•• What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in the 

a 2 24 



passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; there are 
plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have not 
courage to be thieves." — " True, Affendi ; but never 
theless the shot is ringing in my ears." — "The shot ! — 
not a tophaike has been fired this morning." — "I hear it 
notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as plainly as I hear youi 
voice." — "Psha." — "As you please, AfTendi; if it is 
written, so will it be." — I left this quick-eared predesti- 
narian, and rode up to Basili,his Christian compatriot, 
whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means 
relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, re- 
mained a few hours, and returned leisurely, saying a va- 
riety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled 
the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer; Romaic, 
Amaout, Turkish, ItaUan, and English were all exercised, 
in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. 
While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect. 
Dervish was occupied about the columns. I thought he 
was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he 
had become a '■'■ Palaocastro'''' man. "No," said he, 
" but these pillars will be useful in making a stand ;" 
and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own 
belief in his troublesome faculty o^ fore-hearing. On our 
return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a prisoner set 
ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the 
Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking 
place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was 
at some pains to question the man, and he described the 
dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so 
accurately, that, with other circumstances, we could not 
doubt of his having been in " villanous company," and 
ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more 
musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
ment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- 
tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular 
race. In March 1811, a remarkably stout and active 
Amaout came (I believe the 50th on the same errand) 
to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : 
"Well, AfTendi," quoth he, "may you hve! — yov 
would have found me useful. I shall leave the town foi 
the hills to-morrow ; in the winter I return, perhaps you 
will then receive me." — Dervish, who was present, 
remarked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, 
"in the mean time he will join the Klephtes" (rob- 
bers), which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they 
came down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in 
some town, where they are often as well known as their 
exploits. 

Note 41. Page 142, line 36. 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no 
hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that 
it was of a customary length (as may be perceived flora 
the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), ano 
was dehvered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preacheia 

Note 42. Page 142, line 102. 
And shining in her white symar. 
" Symar" — shroud. 

Note 43. Page 143, line 37 
The circumstance to which the above story reiai'iTi 
was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago 
the vkdfe of Muchtar Pacha comolained lo 1k« fjithe- rtf 



146 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



his son's supposed infii^.lity ; he asked with whom, and 
she had vhe barbarity to give in a list of the twelve 
handsomest women in Vanina. They were seized, fast- 
ened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same 
night ! One of the guards who was present informed 
me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed 
a symptom of terror at so sudden a " wrench from all 
we' know, 'rom all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the 
Tiirest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of 
a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly for- 
gotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the 
coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, 
and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and 
interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- 
guished from the rest by tlie want of Eastern imagery ; 



and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag- 
ments of the original. 

For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
partly to D'Herbelot, and part y to that most eastern, 
and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the 
"Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source 
the author of that singular volume may have drawn his 
materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the 
" Bibliothfeque Orientale ;" but for correctness of cos- 
tume, beautj' of description, and power of imagination, 
it far surpasses aU European imitations ; and bears such 
marks of originality, that those who have visited the East 
will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than 
a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must 
bow before it; his " Happy Valley " will not bear a 
comparison with the " Hall of Ebhs." 



A TURKISH TALE. 



Had we never loved so kindly. 
Had we never loved so blindly. 
Never met or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

BURNS. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, 
THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BT HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED 



AND SINCERE FRIEND, 



BYRON. 



CANTO I. 



Know ye the land v^here the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 

New meH. into sorrow, now madden to crime ! 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine. 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; 
Where the hght wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, 
VVax faint o'er the gardens of Gull ' in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In coloiu- though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Whore the virgiris ate soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'T IS the clime of the east ; 't is the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on such deed? as his children have done 1^ 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Arc the hearts which they bear, and the talcs which they 
ecu. 



II. 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 

Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 

Awaiting each his lord's behest. 

To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 

Old GiafRr sate in his Divan : 
Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 

And though the face of Mussulman 
Not oft betrays to standers by 

The mind within, well skill'd to hide 

All but unconquerable pride. 

His pensive cheek and pondering brow 

Did more than he was wont avow. 
III. 
"Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disappear'd- 

"Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award 

" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate 

(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face unveil'd I) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is fix'd tliis very hour : 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



11 



yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
Byrne alone be duty taught!" 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet : 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Sti 1 standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

" Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be. 
Was mine ; then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone. 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to Usten and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high. 
Were irksome — for, whate'er my mood. 
In sooth I love not sohtude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke. 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Haram's grating key. 
Before the guardian slaves awoke. 
We to the cypress groves had flown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own! 
There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mej noun's tale, or Sadi's song;' 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour * 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. 

" Son of a slave!" — the Pacha said — 
" From unbelieving mother bred. 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed. 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire. 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall. 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff— not the brand. 
But, Haroun! — to my daughter speed: 
And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou see'?.t yon bow — it hath a string!" 



V. 

No sound from Selim's lip was neard. 
At least that met old Giaffir's ear. 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
" Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear .' 
Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire?" 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career 
And glances even of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done ; 
He saw rebellion there begun : 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou darest not do : 
But if thy beard had manher length, 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to see thee break a lance. 
Albeit against my own perchance." 
As sneeringly these accents fell. 
On Selim's eyes he fiercely gazed : 

That eye return'd him glance for glance. 
That proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance-* 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy ; 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope. 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone ; 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
I '11 watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab * to my sight, 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear ; 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more tlian even her mother dear. 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet, as the desert-fountain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 
Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 
Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now. 
VI. 
Fair, as the first that fell of womankind. 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smihns-, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind- 

But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given. 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysjun. 
And paints the lost on earth revivea m heaven . 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts ttbo*<w 



(- 


.48 BYRON'S WORKS. 




Was she— the daughter of that rude old chief, 


So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 




Who met the maid with tears— but not of grief. 


Even pity scarce can wish it less! 
Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 




Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 


Or, if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 




To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray ? 


Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steeu, 




Who doth not feci, until his failing sight 


Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouke,'° 




Faints into dimness with its own delight, 


And mounting featly for the mead. 




His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess — - 


With Maugrabee ' ' and Mamaluke, 




The might— the majesty of loveliness ? 


His way amid his Delis took,'^ 




Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 


To witness many an active deed 




The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone : 


With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 




The light of love, the purity of grace, 


The Kislar only and his Moors 




The mind, the music breathing from her face,® 


Watch'd well the Haram's massy doors. 




The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 


IX. 

His head was leant upon his hand. 




And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 




Her graceful arms m meekness bending 


His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water 




Across her gently-budding breast ; 
At one kind word, those arms extending, 


That swiftly glides and gently swells 




Between the winding Dardanelles ; 




To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest, 


But yet he saw nor sea nor strand 




Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 




Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 


Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 




His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart, though stern, could ever feel ; 


Careering cleave the folded felt '^ 




With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 




Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 




Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 


Nor heard their OUahs '* wild and loud — 




Ambition tore the links apart. 


He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 
X. 
No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 




VII. 




" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 


One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 




How dear this very day must tell, 


Still gazed he through the lattice grate. 




When I forget my own distress, 


Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 




In losing what I love so well. 


To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 




To bid thee with another dwell : 


But little from his aspect learn'd : 




Another ! and a braver man 


Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 




Was never seen in battle's van. 


Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 




We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 


But yet that heart alarm'd or weak. 




But yet the line of Carasman' 


She knew not why, forbade to speak. 




Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 


Yet speak she must— but when essay? 




First of the bold Timariot bands 


« How strange he thus should turn away ! 




That won and well can keep their lands. 


Not thus we e'er before have met ; 




Enough that he who comes to woo 


Not thus shall be our parting yet," 




Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 


Thrice paced she slowly through the room 




His years need scarce a thought employ : 


And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd : 




I would not have thee wed a boy. 


She snatch'd the urn wherein was nux'd 




And thou shalt have a noble dower : 


The Persian Atar-gul's > * perfume, 




And his and my united power 


And sprinkled all its odours o'er 




Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 


The pictured roof '^ and marble floor: 




Which others tremble but to scan, 


The drops, that through his glittering vest 




And teach the messenger » what fate 


The playful girl's appeal addrest. 




The bearer of such boon may wait. 


Unheeded o'er his bosom flew. 




And now thou know'st thy father's will : 


As if that breast were marble too. 




All that thy sex hath need to know : 


"What, sullen yet? it must not be — 




' r was mine to teach obedience still — 


Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee !" 




The way to love thy lord may show." 


She saw in curious order set 
The fairest flowers of Eastern land— 




VIII. 


" He loved them once ; may touch them yd 




I'i silence bow'd the virgin's head; 


If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 




And if hei eye was fill'd with tears. 


The childish thought was hardly breath'd 




That stifled reeling dare not shed. 


Before the rose was pluck'd and wreail ed ; 




And changed her cheek from pale to red, 


The next fond moment saw her seat 




And red to pale, as through hor ears 


Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 




Those winged words .me arrows sped. 


" This rose to calm my brother's caret 




Wliai could such be but maiden fears ? 


A message from the Bulbul ■'' bears , 




So bright the tear in beauty's eye, 


It says to-night he will prolong 




Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 


For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. MJ) 


And though his note is somewhat sad, 


I would not wrong the slenderest hair 


He '11 try for once a strain more glad, 


That clusters round thy forehead fair. 


With some faint hope his alter'd lay 


For all the treasui-es buried far 


May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 


Within the caves of Istakar.'^ 


XI. 


This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 


" What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 


Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 


Nay then I am indeed unblest : 


And Giaffir almost called me coward ! 


On me can thus thy forehead lower? 


Now I have motive to be brave ; 


And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 


The son of his neglected slave — 


Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 


Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave- 


Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 


May show, though little apt to vaunt. 


Come, lay thy head upon my breast. 


A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 


And I will kiss thee into rest. 


His son, indeed !— yet thanks to thee, 


Since, words of mine, and songs must fail 


Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 


Even from my fabled nightingale. 


But let our plighted secret vow 


I knew our sire at times was stern. 


Be only known to us as now. 


But this from thee had yet to learn : 


I know the wretch who dares demand 


Too well I know he loves thee not ; 


From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 


But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 


More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul, 


Ah! deem I right? the Pacha's plan— 


Holds not a Musselim's ^° control : 


This kinsman Bey of Carasman 


Was he not bred in Egripo ? ^J 


Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 


A viler race let Israel show ! 


If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine. 


But let that pass — to none be told 


If shrines that ne'er approach allow 


Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold 


To woman's step admit her vow, 


To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 


Without thy free consent, command. 


I 've partisans for peril's day : 


The Sultan should not have my hand ! 


Think not I am what I appear ; 


Think'st thou that I could bear to part 


I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near 


With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 


XIII. 


Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side. 


Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 


" Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 


Years have not seen, time shall not see, 


My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 


The hour that tears my soul from thee: 


This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 


Even Azrael,'^ from his deadly quiver 


But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 


When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 


My love thou surely knew'st before. 


That parts all else, shall doom for ever 


It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 


Our hearts to undivided dust !" 


To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay^ 


XII. 


And hate the night I know not why, 


He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt ; 


Save that we meet not but by day ; 


He raised the maid from where she knelt : 


With thee to live, with thee to die. 


His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 


I dare not to my hope deny : 


Wi«h thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 


Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss. 


With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 


Like this — and this — no more than this ; 


As the stream late conceal'd 


For, AUa ! sure thy lips are flame : 


By the fringe of its willows ; 


What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 


When it rushes reveal'd 


My own have nearly caught the same. 


Inthelightof itsbUlows; 


At least I feei my cheek too blushing. 


j As the bolt bursts on high 


To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 


From the black cloud that bound it, 


Partake, but never waste, thy wealth. 


Flash'd the soul of that eye 


Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by. 


Through the long lashes round it. 


And lighten half thy poverty ; 


A war-horse at the trumpet's sound. 


Do all but close thy dying eye. 


A lion roused by heedless hound. 


For that I could not Uve to try ; 


A tyrant waked to sudden strife 


To these alone my thoughts aspire : 


By graze of ill-directed knife. 


More can I do, or thou require ? 


Starts not to more convulsive life 


But, Selim, thou must answer why 


Than he, who heard that vow, display'd. 


We need so much of mystery ? 


And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 


The cause I cannot dream nor tell. 


" Now thou art mine, for ever mine. 


But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 


With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 


Yet what thou mean'st by < arms ' and * frieni'J 


Now thou art mine, that sacred oath. 


Beyond my weaker sense extends. 


Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 


I meant that Giaffir should have heard 


Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 


The very vow I plighted thee ; 


That vow hath saved more heads than i.-«ie : 


His wrath would not revoke my word . 


But blench not thou— thy simplest tress 


But s'lrely he wouia leave me free. 


Claims more f-'om me than tenderness ; 


Can this fond wish seem strange m me. 



150 



BYRON'S WORKS 



To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour? 

"What other can she seek to see 
Tha" thee, companion of her bower, 

Tlio partner of her infancy ? 
These cherishM thoughts with life begun, 

Sp.v, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now? 
To. meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree ! 
He Icfl me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,22 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Sslim, canst thou tell me why ?" 

XIV. 
" Zuleika ! to thy to^'^ cr's retreat 
Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet ; 
And now ^^^th him I fain must prate 
Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
There 's fearful news from Danube's banks ; 
Our Vizier nobly thini. his ranks. 
For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 
Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
Such costly triumph to repay. 
But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come : 

Then softly from the Haram creep 

Where we may wander by the deep : 

Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list O'xr words, or stint our time. 
And . lie doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before ; 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Tliou know'st I hold a Haram key. ' 
'* Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 

l>i(l word hke this " 

• Delay not ihou ; 
I ktcp »ne Key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-nitrht, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I diio no*, low ! what I appe?j." 



CANTO 11. 



I. 

The winds are high on Helle's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The j'oung, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Scstos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam. 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home •, 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go ; 
He could not see, he would not hear 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love. 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
" Ye waves, divide not lovers long !" 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 

n. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 

Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign. 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 

III. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
IMinstreK with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own "broad Hellespont " ^^ still dashes, 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme ; 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow . 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Ammon's-'^ son ran proudly round, 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how nar» -y^ 
Without — can only strangers breathp 
The name of him that was beneath • 
Dust long outlasts the storied stonfe. 
But thou — thy very dust is gone ! 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



151 



V. 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; 

Till then — no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course ot struggling skiff; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of tnis lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber. 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; -^ 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,^^ 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
And by her Comboloio ^'^ lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute. 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room: 

But yet»it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

VI. 

Wrapt in tlie darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
With cautious steps the thicket threading. 

And starting oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow meanings made. 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat. 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side ? 

How teach her tender lips to chide? 

VII. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By Nature, but enlarged by art. 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune. 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And o{\ in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure. 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss. 
Without her, most beloved in this! 
Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What Houri soothe him half so well? 



VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light: 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance v/ith guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she tum'd to see 

Her Selim—" Oh ! can this be he ?" 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem. 
No longer glitter'd at his waist. 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote . 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and Lcan<< 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand. 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee.^* 

X. 

*' I said I was not what I seem'd ; 

And now thou seest my words were true 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 't were vain to hide ; 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 

XL 

" Oh ! not my brother !— yet unsay— 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sulking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before, 

Thy sister— friend — Zuleika stilL 



152 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thou Icd'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see . 
IMy hreast is ofTcrM— take thy fill ! 
Far better with the dead to be 
Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe; 
And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child. 
For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
My Hfe, Oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 

XII. 

"My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine : 

But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran ^^ verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade. 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided. 

Although thy sire 's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall. 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And Inll'd me with a vain deceit 
T'hat yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help. 

But like the nephew of a Cain; ^° 
He watch'd me like a lion's whelp. 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take ; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
How Gaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 

" How first their strife to rancour grew, 

If love or envy made them ibes. 
It matters little if I knew ; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's ' ' rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest : 
His death is all I need relate. 
The stern effect of Giaffir's hate • 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
What'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 

XIV. 

" When Pdswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life. 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate. 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band ; 



They gave their horsetails ^^ to the wind, 

And, mustering in Sophia's plain. 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign''d ; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words V the deadly bowl, 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given. 
With venom, subde as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath. 

He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught,-*^ nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt. 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

"The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 

In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's pachalick was gain'd : 

Thou know'st not what in our Divan 

Can wealth procure. for worse than man— 

Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 

By him a brother's murder stain'd ; 

'T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 

His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 

Would'st question whence ? Survey the waste, 

And ask the squalid peasant how 

His gains repay his broiling brow ? 

Why me the stern usurper spared, 

V/hy thus with me his palace shared, 

I know not. Shame, regret, remorse. 

And little fear from infant's force ; 

Besides, adoption as a son 

By him whom Heaven accorded none, 

Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 

Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 

He cannot curb his haughty mood. 

Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

"Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true : 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few. 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew. 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ! alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

Wiih foes subdued, or friends betray "d 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate. 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray d- 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from mn , 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. li>3 


To this our Asiatic side, 


I long'd to see the isles that gem 


L''ar trom our seats by Danube's tide, 


Old Ocean's purple diadem : 


With none but Flaroun, who retains 


I sought by turns, and saw them all ; ^^ 


Such knowledge — and the Nubian feels 


But when and where I join'd the crew, 


A tyrant's secrets are but chains 


With whom I 'm pledged to rise or fall. 


From which the captive gladly steals, 


When all that we design to do 


And this and more to nie reveals : 


Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 


Such still to guilt just Alia sends— 


To tell thee when the tale's complete. 


Slaves, tools, accomplices— no friends I 




XVII. 


XX. 


" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 


" 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood. 


But harsher still my talc must be : 


But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 


Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 


And every creed, and every race, 


Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 


With them hath found — may find a place : 


I saw thee start this garb to see, 


But open speech, and ready hand, 


Yet is it one I oft have worn, 


Obedience to their chief's command ; 


And long must wear : this Galiongee, 


A soul for every enterprise. 


To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 


That never sees with terror's eyes ; 


Is leader of those pirate hordes, 


Friendship for each, and faith to all. 


Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 


And vengeance vow'd for those who tall, 


To hear whose desolating tale 


Have ma,de them fitting instruments 


Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 


For more than even my own intents. 


Tl'.Kiise arms thou see'st my band have brought, 


And some — and I have studied all 


The hands that wield are not remote ; 


Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 


This cup too for the rugged knaves 


But chiefly to my council call 


Is fill'd— once quaff 'd, they ne'er repine : 


The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 


Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 


And some to higher thoughts aspire, 


They 're only infidels in wine. 


The last of Lambro's ^* patriots there 


XVIII. 


Anticipated freedom share ; 


And oft around the cavern fire 


" What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 


On visionary schemes debate. 


And taunted to a wish to roam ; 


To snatch the Rayahs ^^ from their fate. 


And Hstless left— for Giaffir's fear 


So let them ease their hearts with prate 


Denied the courser and the spear — 


Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; 


Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft !— 


I have a love for freedom too. 


In full Divan the despot scofF'd, 


Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch^^ roam. 


As if my weak unwilhng hand 


Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! ^^ 


Refused the bridle or the brand : 


My tent on shore, my galley on the sea. 


He ever went to war alone, 


Are more than cities and serais to me : 


And pent me here untried, unknown ; 


Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail. 


To Haroun's care with women left, 


Across the desert, or before the gale. 


By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 


Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow 


While thou — whose softness long endear'd. 


But be the star that guides the wanderer, thou ! 


Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer' d— 


Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 


To Brusa's walls for safety sent. 


The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 


Avvaited'st there the field's event. 


Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 


Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 


Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 


Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 


The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 


His captive, though with dread resigning, 


And tints to-moiTow with prophetic ray ! 


My thraldom for a season broke, 


Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 


On promise to return before 


To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call : 


The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 


Soft — as the melody of youthful days. 


'T is vain — my tongue cannot impart 


That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise^ 


My almost drunkenness of heart, 


Dear — as his native song to exile's ears. 


When first this liberated eye 


Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endear* 


Survey'd earth, ocean, sun, and sky. 


For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 


As if my spirit pierced them through, 


Blooming as Aden^*^ in its earliest houi. 


And all their inmost wonders knew • 


A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hanil. 


One word alone can paint to thee 


Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy commana , 


That more than feeling — I was free ! 


Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 


E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 


The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 


The world — nay — heaven itself was mine ! 


The haram's languid years of hstless ease 


XIX. 


Are well resign'd for cares— for joys hke mese : 


" The shallop of a trusty Moor 


Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 


Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 


Unnumber'd perils — but one only love ' 


P. 25 





lo4 



BYRO^:S WORKS. 



Vet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 

Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 

How dear the dream m darkest hours of ill, 

Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 

Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown j 

To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 

To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 

Blend every thought, do all — but disunite! 

Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide j 

Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 

Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 

By fatal nature to mun's warring kind : 

IVIark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 

He makes a sohtude, and calls it — peace ! 

I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 

Ours be the last : in time deceit may come, 

When cities cage us in a social home : 

There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or woe 

Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika's name ! 

But life is hazard at the best ; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear : 

Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 

By Osman's power and GiafBr's stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 

Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, 'each clime hath charms : 

Karth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 

Ay — let the loud \vinds whistle o'er the deck, 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck: 

The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee I 

The wars of elements no fears impart 

To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 

There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 

Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in horror's shape ! 

Tliis hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to close ; 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 

Yea — foes — to me wiU Giaffir's hate decline ? 

And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 

XXI. 

" His head and faith from doubt and death 
Return'd in time my guard to save ; 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 

From isle to isle I roved the while: 

And since, though parted from my band, 

Too seldom now I leave the land, 

No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, 

Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 

I form the plan, decree the spoil, 

'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 

Bui now too long I 've held thine ear ; 

Time presses, floats my bark, and here 

We leavo behind but hate and fear 



To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance Jus life who gave thee thine, 
With me this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head !" 

XXII. 

Zuleika, mute and motionless. 

Stood hke that statue of distress, 

Whpn, her last hope for ever gone, 

The mother harden'd into stone ; 

All m the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe. 

But ere her hp, or even her eye, 

Essay'd to speak, or look reply. 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 

Another — and another — and another — 

" Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than brclhar 

Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 

The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 

Nor these alone — for each right hand 

Is ready with a sheathless brand. 

They part, pursue, return, and wheel 

With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 

And last of all, his sabre waving, 

Stern Giaflir in his fury raving : 

And now almost they touch the cave — 

Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood — " 'tis come — soon past~ 
One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high. 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drasvn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 

Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire-. 
Yet stay within — here hnger safe. 
At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 

Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 

If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No — though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel? 
No — as each cresi save his may feel '" 

XXIV. 

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 
Akeady at his feet hath sunk 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



15^ 



The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk: 
Anotner falls — but round hira close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strength- 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 't is but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water ! 

XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 

Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 

To where the strand and billows met : 

There as his last step left the land, 

And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 

Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took. 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain. 
How late will lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
« So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" 
Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling. 
The whiteness of the sea-<bam troubling — 
If aught his lips essay'd ^o groan, 
The rushing billows choak'd the tone ! 

XXVI. 
Mom slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there b-^ mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shehdng to the deep 

Tkere lies a white capote ! 
'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave vet ripples o'er in vain : 
But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! whc would o'er his relics weep 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sigaeum's steep, 
And cast on Lemnos' shore : 



The sea-birds shriek above the prey. 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
That hand, whose motion is not life. 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high. 
Then levell'd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shal. lie 

Within a living grave? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die. 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
And mourn'd above his turban-stone, *° 
That heart hath urst — that eye was closed- 
Yea — closed before his own ! 
XXVII. 
By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : 
Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race. 

Thy destined lord is come too late ; 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wulleh'*' warn his distant ear? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate. 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale. 

Tell him thy tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 
And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
That grief— though deep — though fatal — was thy first 
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
And, oh ! that pang where more than madness Ues 
The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light. 
That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! 
Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart! 
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy daughter 's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twihght's lonely beam, 
The star hath set that shone on Helle's strean?. 
What quench'd its ray ?— the blood that thou hast ah« d I 
Hark ! to the hurried question of despair : 
"Where is my child ?" an echo answers — " Whe? » ?"*• 
XXVIII. 
Within the place of thousand tombs 
That shine beneath- while dai'k ahcvf 



56 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The sad but living cypress glooms 
And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stainp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms 

Even in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : , 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears. 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread. 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholv spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake. 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high, 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive. 

Yet harsh be they that blame) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will snape and syllable its sound 

Into Zuleika's name.*' 
'T is from her cypress' summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ; 
t'or there, as Helle's legends tell, 
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell ; 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 
And there, by night, reclined, 't is said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
And hence extended by the billow, 

T is named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow !" 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath flourish'd ; flounsheth this hour, 
Alone arid dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
A.B weeoiiig; beauty's cheek at sorrow's taJe ! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 146, line 8. 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom 
"Gul," the rose. 

Note 2. Page 146, line 17. 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 

" Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, 
With whom revenge is virtue." 

Youvg's Revenge. 

Note 3. Page 147, line 31. 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song. 
Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of tnt 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

Note 4. Page 147, line 32. 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour. 
Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
noon, and twilight. 

Note 5. Page 147, line 103. 
He is an Arab to my sight. 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
ment a hundred fold), even more than they hate the 
Christians. 

Note 6. Page 148, line 12. 
The mind, the music breathing from her face. 
This expression has met with objections. I will not 
refer to "him who hath not Music in his soul," but 
merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, 
the features of the woman whom he believes to be tha 
most beautiful ; and if he then does not comprehend 
fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall 
be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the 
latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps 
of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate com- 
parison excited by that analogy), between "painting 
and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10. De L'Allemagke. 
And is not this connexion still stronger with the original 
than the copy ? — with the colouring of nature than of 
art ? After all, this is rather to be felt tnan described ; 
still I think there are some who will understand it, at 
least they would have done, had they beheld the coun- 
tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea ; 
for this passage is not drawn from imagination, but 
memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the 
earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- 
holds the reflection multiphed ! 

Note 7. Page 148, line 34. 

But yet the line of Carasman. 
Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is tne 
principal landholder in Turkey : he governs Magnesia : 
those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on 
condition of service, are called Timariots : they serve 
as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and 
bring a certain number into the field, generally ca\alry. 

Note 8. Page 148, line 46. 
And teach the messenger what fate. 
When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always ihe first bearer of the 
order for his death, is strangled instead, and some- 
times five or six, one after the other, on the same 
errand, by command of the refractory patient ; if, on 
the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, ki.sses the 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



157 



Saltan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with 
^eat complacency. In 1810, several of these presents 
were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; 
among othets, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a 
crave j'oung man, cut off by treachery, after a despe- 
rate resistance. 

Note 9. Page 148, line 65. 
Thrice ciapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed. 
Clapping of hands calls the servants. The Turks 
hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have 
no bells. 

Note 10. Page 148, hne 66. 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque. 

Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of v.hich the amber 

mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball whiich contains the 

leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession 

of the wealthier orders. 

Note 11. Page 148, line 68. 
With Maugrabee and Mamaluke, 
Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 

Note 12. Page 148, line 69. 
His way amid his Delis took. 
Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
and always begin the action. 

Note 13. Page 148, line 81. 
Careerin? cleave the folded felt. 
A twisted fold o^ felt is used for scimitar practice by 
he Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through 
\t at a single stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used 
for the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt 
javehns, animated and graceful. 

Note 14. Page 148, line 84. 
Nor heard their Oilahs wild and loud — 
" Oilahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the Spanish 
poets call them, the sound is Ollah ; a cry of which the 
Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, par- 
ticularly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly 
in battle. Their animation in the field, and gra\ity m 
the chamber, with their pipes and coraboloios, form an 
amusing contrast. 

Note 15. Page 148, Une 103. 
The Persian Atar-gul's perfume. 
"Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

Note 16. Page 143, hne 105. 
The pictured roof and marble floor. 
The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
ISIussulman apartments are generally pamted, m great 
liouses, with one eternal and highly coloured view of 
Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble 
contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimitars, etc., 
are in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 

Note 17. Page 148, Une 121. 
A message from the Bulbul bears. 
It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
" Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's 
remarks on the subject have provoked some learned 
controversy is to the opinions of the ancients on the 
subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, 
though a Uttle inchned to the " errare mallem," etc., 
\f Mr. Fox was mistaken. 
a 2 



Note 18. Page 149, Une 34. 
Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. 
" Azrael" — the angel of death. 

Note 19. Page 149, line 67. 
Within the caves of Istakar. 
The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. SeeD'IlEU 
BELOT, article Istakar. 

Note 20. Page 149, Une 83. 
Holds not a iSIusselim's contiol. 
Musselira, a governor, the next in rank after a Pachaj 
a Way wode is the third ; and then come the Agas. 

Note 21. Page 149, line 84. 

Was he not bred in Egripo 1 

Egripo — the Negropont. According to the proverb, 

the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and tlio 

Greeks of Atliens, are the worst of their respective 

races. 

Note 22. Page 150, line 31. 
Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar. 
" Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who preccties 
a man of authority. 

Note 23. Page 150, Une 101. 
Thine own " broad Hellespont " still dashes 
The wrangling about this epithet, "the broad Hel- 
lespont" or the " bo'ondless Hellespont," whether it 
means one or the other, or what it means at all, has 
been beyond aU possibiUty of detail. I have even heard 
it disputed on the spot ; and, not foreseeing a speedy 
conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with 
swimming across it in the mean time, and probably 
may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the 
question as to the truth of " the tale of Troy divine " 
still continues, much of it resting upon the taUsmanic 
word '■^ a-eipog:^'' probably Horner had the same notion 
of distance that a coquette has of time, and v.-hen ha 
taUcs of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by 
a Uke figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply 
specifies three weeks. s 

Note 24. Page 150, Une 112. 
Which Ammon's son ran proudly round. 
Before his Persian invasion, and crowTied the altsir 
with laurel, etc. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 
calla in his race. It is beUeved that the last also 
poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new 
Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on 
the tombs of .^^sietes and Antilochus ; the first is in 
the centre of the plain. 

Note 25. Page 151, Une 12. 
O'er which her fairy fingers ran. 
When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfiime, 
which is sUght, but not disagreeable. 

Note 26. Page 151, line 15. 
Her mother's sainted amulet. 
The beUef in amulets engraved on gems, or inclosed 
in gold boxes, containing scraps fi-om the Koran, worn 
round the neck, v^Tist, or arm, is still universal in the 
East. TheKoorsee (throne) verse in the second chap, 
of the Koran describes the attributes of the most High 
and is engraved in this maimer, and woin by me pioun, 
as the most esteen^ed and sublime of all ser/v^nce.s. 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Notr 27. Page 151, line IS. 
And l y her Coinboloio lies. 
''Comboloio"— a Turkish rosary. The MSS., par- 
iicularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and 
Uluminated. The Greek females are kept in utter igno- 
rance ; but many of the Turkish girls are highly ac- 
complished, though not actually qualified for a Chris- 
tian coterie ; perhaps some of our own "6/ues" might 
lot be the worse for bleaching. 

Note 28. Page 151, line 96. 
In him waa some young Galiongee. 
Galiongee " — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turk- 
ish sailor ; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the 
guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen the 
('aptain Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of 
incog. Their legs, however, are generally naked. The 
buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with 
silver, are those of an Arnaout robber, who was my 
host (he had quitted the profession), at his Pyrgo,near 
Gastouni in the Morea ; they were plated m scales one 
over the other, like the back of an armadillo. 

Note 29. Page 152, line 18. 
So may the Koran verse display'd. 
The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- 
times the name of the place of their manufacture, but 
more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. 
Amongst those in my possession is one with a blade of 
smgular construction ; it is very broad, and the edge 
notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, 
or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian who 
sold it, what possible use such a figure could add : he 
said, in Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mussul- 
mans had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
wound ; and liked it because it was " piu feroce." I 
did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its 
peculiarity. 

Note 'iO. Page 152, line 33. 
But like the nephew of a Cain. 
It is to be obser\'ed, that every allusion to any thing 
or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or 
Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; 
indeed the former profess to be much better acquainted 
with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than 
is warranted by our own Sacred writ, and not content 
with Adam, they have a biography of Pre- Adamites. 
Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a 
prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika 
vi the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her amour 
with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their 
anCTuaoe. It is therefore no violation of costume to put 
•he names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 

Note 31. Page 152, hne 49. 
And Paswan's rebel hordes attest. 
Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last 
year:* of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at 
.'•'.fiance. 

Note 32. Page 152, line 61. 
They gave their horsetails to the wind, 
llorsetaii, ,iie standard of a Pacha. 

Note 33. Page 152, line 74. 
He drank one draught, nor needed more ! 
»»i«iffir, Pacha of Argvro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 



sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, 
in the manner described in the text. Ah Pacha, while 
I was in the country, married the daughter of his victim, 
some years after the event had taken place at a batli in 
Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the 
cup of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet by 
the bath-keeper, after dressing. 

Note 34. Page 153, line 64. 
I sought by turns, and saw them all. 
The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined 
to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 

Note 35. Page 153, line 87. 
The last of Lambro's patriots there. 
Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 
1789-90 for the independence of his country: aban- 
doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is said 
to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Riga are the two 
most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 

Note 36. Page 153, line 91. 
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 
" Rayahs," all who pay the capitation tax, called th« 
" Haratch." 

Note 37. Page 153, line 95. 
Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 
This first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

Note 38. Page 153, line 96. 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home. 
The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Tuiko- 
mans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern 
travels. That it possesses a charm pecuhar to itself can- 
not be denied. A young French renegado confessed to 
Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, gal- 
loping in the desert, without a sensation approaching to 
rapture, which was indescribable. 

Note 39. Page 153, line 116. 
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
" Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussvi- 
man Paradise. 

Note 40. Page 155, line 78. 
And mourn'd above his turban-stone. 
A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men 
only. 

Note 41. Page 155, line 87. 
The loud Wul -wulleh warn his distant ear. 
The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent 
slaves" are the men whose notions of decorum forbid 
complaint in public. 

Note 42. Page 155, line 123. 
" Where is my child ? " — an echo answers — " Where 1' 
"I came to the place of my birth and cried, 'tJie 
friends of my youth, where are they'/' and an Ecbo 
answered, ' where are they ? ' " 

From an Arabic MS. 

The above quotation (from which the idea in the text 
is taken) must be already familiar to every reader — it is 
given in the first annotation, page 67, of "the Pleasures 
of Memory;" a poem so well known as to render a 
reference almost superfluous ; but to whose pages il' 
will be delighted to recur. 



THE CORSAIR. 



159 



Note 43. Page 156, line 47. 

Into Zuleika's name. 

'And airy tongues that syllable men's names." 

MJLTON. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form 
tsf birds, we need not travel to the east. Lord Lyttleton's 
li^hnst story ; the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that 
Oeorge I. fiew into her window in the shape of a raven 



(see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other instan- 
ces, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singu- 
lar was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believinj^ 
her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing-bird, lir 
erally furnished her pew in the Cathedral with cages-full 
of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress i^ 
beautifying the church, no objection was made to hfe» 
harmless folly. — For this anecdote, see Oxford's Lettera. 



A TALE. 



I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno. 

TASSO, Canto decimo, Gerusalemme Ltberata. 



THOJVIAS »IOORE, ESQ. 

MY DEAR MOORE, 

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which I 
sliall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, 
for eome years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail 
myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning 
my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public 
principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. 
While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- 
triots : while you stand alone the first of her bards in her 
e;:;Limation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, 
permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaint- 
ance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to 
the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove 
to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification 
derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It 
is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are 
engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will 
be laid in the East : none can do those scenes so much 
justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
cent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of 
her daughters, may there be found ; and Collins, when 
he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not 
aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your 
imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded 
sky ; but wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part 
of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
liave already thus far proved your title more clearly than 
the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? — Self. 
[ have written much, and publislied more than enough 
10 demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but for 
■iome years to come it is my intention to tempt no 
further the award of " gods, men, nor columns." In 
the present composition I have attempted not the most 
jifRcult, but, perhaps, the best-adapted measure to our 
anguage, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. 
The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified 
for narrative ; though I confess, it is the measure most 



after my own heart : Scott alone, of the present gene- 
ration, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fataJ 
faciUty^of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the least 
victory of his fertile and mighty genius : in blank verse, 
Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons 
that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough 
and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic 
couplet is not the most popular measure certainly ; but 
as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
nothing but compositions whose former circulation is 
part of my present and will be of my futujo regret. 

W^ith regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the 
gloomy vanity of *' drawing from self," the pictures ara 
probably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, 
those who know me are undeceived, and those who do 
not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; 
but I cannot help a little suprise, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
instance, when I see several bards (far more deserving, 
I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, 
nevertheless, might be found with little more morality 
than "The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must admit 
Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as 
to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever 
"alias" they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man 
who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, 
the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permjls 
me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 

most truly, and affectionately, 
\is obedient servant, 

BYROW. 
January 2, 1814. 



IGO 



BYRONS WORKS. 



CANTO I. 



nessun maggior dolore, 

Clie t wrdarsi del tempo felice 

JNetla miseria 

DANTE. 



* O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
l''ar as thg breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Durs the wiid life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaung wave ; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters \\ide, 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life ; 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay. 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
\Yliile gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
Ours with one pang^-one bound — escapes control. . 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph m danger's day. 
When those who win at length divide the prey. 
And cry remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now /" 

II. 
Su3h were the notes that from the pirate's isle. 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang l]\e while ; 
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along. 
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand. 
They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign. 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine : 
Kej)air me boat, replace the helm or oar. 
While otheis straggling muse along the shore ; 
^''or tiie \vi\a bird the busy springes set, 
(>! spread beneath the sun the nripping net; 



Gaze where some distant 5=-iil a sppck supplies, 

With all the thirsting eye of enterprise ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a stjcil : 

No matter where — their chief's allotment tliis. 

Theirs to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief ? — His name on every slu'i>" 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command : 

Few are his v/ords, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his hp the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits. 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

" Steer to that shore!" — they sail. "Do this! " — 't is do't* 

"Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won. 

Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 

And all obey and few inquire his will ; 

To such brief answer and contemptuous eye 

Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

HI. 

"A sail! — a sail !" — a promised prize to hope • 

Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 

No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 

The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 

Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 

Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 

Already doubled is the cape — our bay 

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 

How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 

Her white wings fl^-ing — never fi-om her foes — 

She walks the waters hke a thing of life. 

And seems to dare the elements to strife. 

Who would not brave the battle- fire — the wreck — 

To move the monarch of her peopled deck? 

ly. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings : 

The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings ' 

And gathering loiterers on the land discern 

Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 

'Tis mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, 

Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 

Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 

Wlien hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 

The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 

And the heart's promise of festi\dty! 

V. 

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd : 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud. 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear w u-d 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them " will their accents bless ? 
From where the battie roars — the billows cliafe — 
They doubtless boldly died — but who are sale? 



THE CORSAIR. 



161 



Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss tlie doubt from these delighted eyes!" — 

VI. 

"Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short 
Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief j 
tJut, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
OiB greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, 
And all shall hear what each may Avish to learn." 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 
By bushy brake, and wild-flowers blossoming. 
And freshness breathing from each silver spring. 
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst. 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
From crag to clilT they mount — Near yonder cave. 
What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand. 
Not oft a resting-staflr to that red hand. 
'"Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone; 
On — Juan ! on — and make our purpose known. 
The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
His ear witli tidings he must quickly meet : 
We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood 
When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 
Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his Hps are mute. 
" These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report, 
M x;h tliat" — "Peace, peace !" — He cuts their prating 

short. 
Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture w^hispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with manv a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride. 
He read the scroll — 'Oly tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ?" 

"In the anchor'd bark." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear. 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
"To-night, Lord Conrad?''' 

" Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
]My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that, free from rust, 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of mv trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard niore room to fit my hand. 
This let the armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired 
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 

vin. 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste; 
Yet they repme not — so that Conrad guides ; 
A"d who dare question aught that he decides ? 
26 



That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh j 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew. 
And tints each swarthj' cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one ! 
'T is Nature's doom — but let tlie wretch who toils 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race. 

Demons in act, but gods at least in face. 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire 

Robust, but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height : 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 

They gaze ajid marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien 

Still seems there something he would not have seen : 

His features' deepening hues and varying hue, 

At limes attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind, 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined . 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye ; 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutinj", 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought than drag that chiePs to-day. 

There was a laughing devil in his sneer. 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear , 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell ' 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 

Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought ' 

Love shows all changes — Hate, ambition, guile 

Betray no further than the bitter smile; 

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness ^hrowTi 

Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 

Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien. 

He, who would see, must br ijiTas^ unseeF 



1G2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Then— with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
That listfjns, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart: 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow. 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not. 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark—how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself— the secret spirit free ? 

XL 

Yet was not Conrad thus by nature sent 

To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument ; — 

His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 

Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 

Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school. 

In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 

Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to give again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her force, 

He hated man too much to feel remorse, 

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call. 

To pay the injuries of some on all. 

He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 

The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 

And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 

He knew himself detested, but he knew 

The hearts that loathed him crouch'd and dreaded too. 

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 

From all affection and from all contempt: 

His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 

But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 

The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 

The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 

The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 

Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 

And he may crush — not conquer — still it slings ! 

xn. 

None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 

One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 

Ofl could he sneer at others as beguiled 

By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 

Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove. 

And even in him it asks the name of love ! 

Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged. 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 

Though fairest captives daily met his eye. 

He shunn'd, nor sousht, but coldly pass'd them by ; 

Thougn n.any a beauty aroop'd in prison'd bower 

None ever .soothed his most unguarded hour. 

Yes — it Was love — if thoughts of tenderness, 

■JV«od in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 

And yet — Oh more than all \ — urttired by time ; 



Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile 

Could render sullen were she near to smile. 

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 

On her one murmur of his discontent ; 

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 

Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 

Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 

If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 

He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 

On him — but not the passion, nor its power. 

Which only proved, all other virtues gone. 

Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

xin. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 

Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 

" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past. 

Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 

Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear. 

Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 

'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 

And, if my plan but hold, and fortune smile, 

We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral- pile. 

Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 

Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beamii 

As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) 

To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 

Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart. 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 

Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 

Even insects sting for augh< they seek to save. 

This common courage which with brutes we share, 

That owes its deadliest efforts to despair. 

Small merit claims — but 't was my nobler hope 

To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 

Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed ; 

No medium now— we perish or succeed ! 

So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 

But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 

My lot hath long had httle of my care, 

But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare ; 

Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 

Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 

Oh, fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 

Slie may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 

Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hif 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they run" 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 

1. 

Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
Lonely and lost to fight for evermore. 
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells 
Then trembles into silence as before. 



" There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp. 
Though vain its ray as it had never Deeo. 



TEE CORSAIH. 



IG' 



3. 



I 

' Remembei it>e — Oh ! pass not thou my grave , 

Without one tbu3aht whose relics there reclLae : ' 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave I 
INIust be to find forgctfulness in thine. 



" My fondest — faintest — latest — accents hear : 
Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove ; 

Then give me all I ever asked — a tear, 

The first — last — sole reward of so much love !" 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: 
* My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

'In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have k glad? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit. 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
IMy dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge. 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon-fire. 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar.. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view. 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
At length — 't was noon — I hail'd and blest the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth ; and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here : 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life. 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will!" 

"Yes, strange indeed, that heart hath long been changed: 

Worm- like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged, 

Without one hope on earth beyond thy love. 

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 

Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 

My very love to thee 'is hate to them. 

So closely minghng here, that, disentwined, 

I cease to love thee when I love mankind. 

Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 

Assures the future that my love will last ; 

But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 

This hour again — but not for long — we part." 

"This hour we part! — my heart foreboded this: 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay: 



Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew ; 

IMy lore ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst stcd 

My breast before the time when it must feel j 

But trifle now no more with my distress, 

Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 

Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 

The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 

Light toU ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 

See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 

And where not sure, perplex' J, but pleas'd, I guess'd 

At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill 

My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 

Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 

See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 

The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 

Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears ! 

Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 

What others deem a penance is thy choice. 

But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 

Is ti'imm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 

Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 

And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 

Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 

Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 

We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told. 

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.^ 

Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 

To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 

Or even that traitor chief— I 've seen thee smile. 

When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 

Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 

And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said. 

Lest time should raise that doubt to more than dreaa 

Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main • 

And he deceived mo — for — he came again!" 

" Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above. 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wmg : 

The why — the w here — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord 's away. 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet : 

List ! — 't is the bugle — Juan shrilly ble>\ — 

One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace , 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms. 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
. Scarce beat that bosom where his image awell 
So full — that feehng seem'd almost unfelt ' 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun; 
It told 't was sunset — and he cursed that svui. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd : 
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ' 



164 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And, tottering to the couch, his bride he bore, 
t)nc moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
F(^lt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kjys'd her cold forehead— turn'd— is Conrad gone? 

XV. 

"And is he gone?" — on sudden solitude 

How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 

'"T\vas but an instant past — and here he stood ! 

And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 

And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 

Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 

But still her hps refused to send — "farewell!" 

For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 

We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 

O'er every feature of that still pale face, 

Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase ; 

The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 

Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him. 

And then it flow'd — and phrensied scem'd to swim 

Through these long, dark, and glistening lashes, dew'd 

With drops of sadness oft to be rcncw'd. 

"He 's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven; 

She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 

The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 

** It is no dream — and I am desolate !" 

XVI. 

Fiom crag to crag descenduig — swiftly sped 

St«3rn Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his ej^e what he would not survey, 

His lone, but lovely dweUing on the steep. 

That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 

And she — the dim and melancholy star. 

Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 

On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 

There he might rest, but on destruction's brink : 

Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 

Hia fate to chance, his projects to the wave ; 

But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind. 

And sternly gathers all his might of mmd : 

Again he hurries on — and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 

Tlie busy sounds, the bustle of the shore. 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 

As marks his eye the sea-boy on the mast 

The anchor's rise, the sails unfurling fast, 

The waving kerchiefs of the crowa that urge 

That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 

And, more than all, his blood-red flag aloft. 

He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 

Fu-e in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 

He feels of all his former self possest ; 

He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 

The verge where ends the clifl", begins the beach, 

Theio checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 

The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 

Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 

Noi nosh, disf urb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 



For well had Conrad learn'd to cur^ .he crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye. 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent: 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent. 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echoed to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood. 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard ; 
Before him Juan stands — "Are all prepared?" 
" They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

"My sword and my capote." 
So firmly girded on, and lightly slung. 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung. 
" Call Pedro here !" — He conies — and Conrad beiu'lSj 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
"Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine !" 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves, phosphoric ^ brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands ; 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how w^ell the ship her helm obeys. 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower. 
And five a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ! 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day-^ 
Again he mans himself and turns away; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what iiour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady Dreeze serenely blew. 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by. 
And anchor'd where his ambush meaiu to Jie ; 



THE CORSAIR. 



16.? 



Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Tiien rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calnr.y talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



c 



CANTO II. 



Conosccste i dubiosi desiri 1 

DANTE. 



I. 

In Coron's bay floats many a galley Hght, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Sej'd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come. 
When he shall drag the fetter' d Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gatnering crews, and loud the boast ; 
Already shared the captives and the prize. 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
INIeantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill ; 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay — 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow. 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head, must, smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer. 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 

High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff, 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice, ^ 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslem's use ; 
The long Chibouque's ''^ dissolving cloud supply. 
While dance the Almas ^ to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But waves are somew4iat treacherous in the dark : 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch, than o'er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans tiust ; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant m.ore than even the Pacha's boast. 

in. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate. 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor, 
Lre vet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 



'A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped is here — himself would tcU the rest." 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye. 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest. 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years. 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudl}' o'er : 
Around his fonn his loose long robe v>-as thrown, 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, s^et with self-possession mann'd. 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain w^ould seek. 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 

"Whence com'st thou, Dervise ?" 

" From the outla.w''s den, 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when ?•" 
"From Scalanova's port to Scio's isle. 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chauis. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight: 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can fear?" 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared, 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?" 

" Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 

I only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore ; 

I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky. 

Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 

And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 

Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 

This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 

They little deem of aught in peril'? shape ; 

Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 

That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 

The careless guard that did not see me fly. 

May watch as idly when thy power is nigh : 

Pacha! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 

Food for my hunger, rest from tossing w-^ves ; 

Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peacf; 

With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Dervase ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring , 
Thou shalt not pine where all art; banqueting . 
The supper done — prepare thee to repiy. 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery," 

'T were vain to guess what shook the pious tran, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Di\ an ; 



I6G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



L 



^for show'd high relish for the banquet prest, 
And less respect for every fe. low-guest. 
'T was but a moment's peevish [lectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook ; 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd, as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
JNIethinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
'* What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
IMakes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !" 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stem vow and order's "^ laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread, nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 

One question answer ; then in peace depart. 

How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ! 

What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 

It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 

Ho! treachery! my guards ! my scimitar! 

The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 

A'xursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 

Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now !" 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More, glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glanid on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise ! seize on Zatanai ! ' 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Smcc far loo early and too well obey'd, 
The llame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
His Ixigle— brief the blast— but snrilly blew ; 
•T is answer'd— " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Whj did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And if<'em design had leli me single here ?" 



Sweeps his long arm -thr* sabre's whirling sw.'?y 

Sheds fast atonement for its first dtlay ; 

Completes his fury, what their fear began, 

And makes the many basely quail to one. 

The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread. 

And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 

Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwlielm'd with rage, surpoCT 

Retreats before him, though he still defies. 

No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 

So much Confusion magnifies his foe! 

His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 

He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ;' 

For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate. 

And burst within — and it were death to -wait ; 

Where wild amazement shrieking — kneeling — throwt 

The sw-ord aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 

The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within 

Invited ConVad's bugle, and the din 

Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 

Froclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 

They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 

A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 

But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 

" 'T is well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die. 

Much hath been done — but more remains to do— 

Their galleys blaze — why not their city too?" 

V. 

Quick at the word — they seize him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stem delight was fix'd in Conrad'yeye, 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 

Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 

" Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 

One female form — remember — we have wives. 

On them such outrage vengeance will repay; 

Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay : 

But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 

Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live ; 

Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to hghten of at least a crime." 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts tlie door, 

Nor feels his feet glov/ scorching with the floor ; 

His breath choak'd gasping with the volumed smoko. 

But still from room to room his way he broke. 

They search — they find — they save : with lusty arre. 

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 

Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frame? 

With all the care defenceless beauty claims ; 

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood. 

And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 

But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 

From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 

Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ! 

The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd ' 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,' 

Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 

For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war« 

The foe, before retiring fast and far. 

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursucd, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withsteod. 



THE CORSAIR. 



Fiiis Se3'd perceives, then first perceives how few, 
Comoared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
And bUisncs o'er his error, as he eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 
And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 
The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 
When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 
Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd: 
*' One effort — one — to break the circling host!" 
They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 
Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 
Hopeless not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more — 
Hemm'd in— cut off— cleft down — and trampled o'er ; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home. 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome. 
His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 

VII. 

But first ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank and hand to hand oppose, 
Guhiare and all her Haram handmaids freed. 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
By Conrad's mandate. safely were bestow'd, 
And dried those tears for life and flame that flow'd : 
And when that daA-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
]Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
'T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem dehghted with the heart he gave ; 
The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
"The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female, vain: 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot. 
The Ufe — my loving lord remem.ber'd not!" 

\TII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread. 

But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 

Far from his band, and battling with a host 

That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 

Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of tlie death he sought. 

And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 

Preserved to linger and to hve in vain ; 

VVliile Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain. 

And staunch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 

But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 

Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 

Can this be he? triumphant late she saw. 

When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 

'T is he indeed — disarm'd but undeprest. 

His sole regret the life he still possest ; 

His wounds too shght, though taken with that will. 

Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 

Oh ! were there none, of all the many given. 

To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heav'n ? 



Must he alone of all retain his breath. 

Who more than all had striven and stmck for death ' 

He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel. 

When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel. 

For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 

Of lingering tortui-es to repay the debt — 

He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 

That led to pej-petrate — now serves to hide. 

Still in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conquecor's more than captive's air is seen : 

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wouna, 

But fev/ that saw — so calmly gazed around : 

Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 

Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 

The better warriors who beheld him near. 

Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 

And the grim guards that to his durance led, 

In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 

The leech was sent — but not in mercy — there 

To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 

He fomid enough to load with heaviest chain, 

And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 

To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 

Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun. 

And rising with the wonted blush of morn 

Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne 

Of torments this the longest and the worst, 

Which adds all other agony to thirst, 

That day by day death still forbears to slake, 

While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 

" Oh ! water — water !" — smiling hate denies 

The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 

This was his doom: — the leech, the guard were gone. 

And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 

X. 

'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind. 
When all its elements convulsed — combined- 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force. 
And gnashing with impenitent remorse ; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before- 
But cries, " I warn'd thee !" when the deed is o ei. 
Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent. 
May writhe — rebel— the weak alone repent! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And, to itself, all — all that self reveals. 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought , 
But the vdld prospect, when the soul reviews- 
All rushing through their thousand avenues- 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those v.ho fain would triumph in our fate , 
The hopeless past ; the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven • 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember d «w? 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to stern reflection each a crime • 



EYRON'S WORKS. 



The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 

That opening sepulchre— the naked heart 

Bares with its buried woes, till pride awake. 

To snatch the mirror from the soul— and break. 

Ay-— pride can veil, and courage brave it all, 

All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 

Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 

The only hypocrite deserving praise : 

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; 

But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 

So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 

He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 

XL 

In the liigh chamber of his highest tower, 
Sate C onrad, fetter' J in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame. 
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 
Alone he sate — in soUtude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
One thought alone he could not — dared not meet. 
" Oh ! hov.' these tidings will Medora greet !" 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed j 
But soon he found — or feign' d — or dream'd reUef, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief: 
'•And now come torture when it will — or may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day!" 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 

T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
f or Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time. 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
Disguised, discovered, conquering, ta'en, condcmn'd — 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest oeeming — for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends ; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, v.hich opens but to pain, 
Vnd once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
W nil shape of fairy hghtness — naked foot, 
'1 'at shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
T-irough guards and dunnest night how came it there ? 
All ! rather ask what will not woman dare. 
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Guhiare? 
She cjuld not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
In multc mg dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
Sfip ieft his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
Wliif h oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 



And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding fit the turret door, 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more , 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring. 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep, 
Wliile other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 
True — 't is to him my life, and more I owe. 
And me and mine he spared from worse than woe : 
'T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — av.'akes!" 
He raised his head — and, dazzled with the light, 
His ej'e seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
Too harshly told him that he hved again. 
"What is that form? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks my jailor's face shows wondrous fair''* 

" Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful banc 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why- 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

" If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight : 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their righU 

But still I thank their courtes}- or thine, 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine." 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief— 

That playfulness of sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles; 

And sometimes with the wisest and the best. 

Till even the scaflbld ^° echoes with their jest! 

Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 

And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 

As if the last he could erijoy on earth ; 

Yet 'gainst his nature — for ihi-ough tl^at short life, 

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 

XIV. 

" Corsair! thy doom is named — but I have power 

To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now 

But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ; 

But all I can, I will : at least, delay 

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 

More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

"Yes! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all 
Or fall'n too low to fear another fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope. 
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope * 



THE CORSAIR. 



160 



[Tnfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 

The one of all my band that would not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these — my bark — my sword — m}' love — my God ! 

The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 

And man bat works his will to lay me low. 

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 

Wrung from the coward crouching of despair; 

[t is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 

Tliat might have better kept so true a brand ; 

My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 

For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 

Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 

And this will break a heart so more than kind. 

And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare ! 

Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 

" Thou lovest another then? — but what to me 
Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lovest — and — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought." 

'* Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" jNIy love stem Seyd's ! Oh — no — no — not my love — 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
To meet his passion— but it would not be. 
[ felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the iree. 
I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best. 
To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo. 
Of—' Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer ' No !' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear. 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse nor check' d — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 
And, when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his imprest. 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal. 
The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reflection comes — and come it must — 
1 fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust; 
I am his slave — but, in Respite of pride, 
'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
Or seek another and give mine release. 
But yestertlay — I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes— if unwonted fondness now I feign. 
Remember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below. 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Far(jwell— morn breaks— and I must now away : 
T will cost me dear — but dread no death to day !" 
s 2 27 



XV. 

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here? and is he now alone 7 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? 

The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain. 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from pity's mine, 

Abeady pohsh'd by the hand divine ! 

Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 

In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 

What weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 

Avoid it — virtue ebbs and wisdom errs. 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven. 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe ! 

XVI. 
'T is morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt. 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



CANTO III. 



Come vedi — ancor non m' abbandona. 

DANTE. 



I. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills, the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of li%ing Hght! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws. 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On old jEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions nngcring, loves to shine. 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
INIark his gay course and own the hues of heaven . 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliflfhe sinks to sieep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast. 
When, Athens ! here thy w^isest look'd his last- 
How^ watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's ' ' latest day ' 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting hngers still ; 



170 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But sad liis light io agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: 
(iloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never fro\\Ti'd before ; 
But, ere he sunk below CithiBron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff 'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 

The queen of night asserts her silent reign.'" 

No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 

With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, 

There the white column greets her grateful ray. 

And, bright around with quivering beams beset. 

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 

The groves of oUve scatter'd dark and wide 

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide. 

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 

The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, '^ 

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 

Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 

All tinged w'.th varied hues, arrest the eye — 

And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the -^gean, heard no more afar. 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 

Again his waves in milder tints unfold 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, 

That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile.'* 

n. 

Nf't now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee ? 

Oh ! who can look along thy native sea. 

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 

So much its magic must o'er all prevail? 

Who that beheld that sun upon thee set. 

Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 

Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 

Spe'l- bound within the clustering Cjxlades! 

Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain. 

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 

Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

III. 

The sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
INIedora's heart — the third day 's come and gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens— she that day had past 
In watching all that hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
And rficre she wancer'd heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and wam'd away : 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
N or deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His \0''V sight had shock'd from Ufe or sense ! 



It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat. 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought, 
Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few- 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they kt.eiv. 
In silence, darkling, each appeal 'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to feai 
To trust their accents to JMedora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot. 
Within that meek fair form were feelings high. 
That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
While yet was Hope — they soften' d — flutter'd — wept— 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that strength v.hich said, 
" With nothing left to love — there 's nought to dread." 
'T is more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 

What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 

Yet w^ould I ask — almost my lip denies 

The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

" Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound, and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 

So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with 

stood ; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, j'et weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew. 
Raise — fan — sustain till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve j 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him Ihnng, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few. 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true 

V. 

Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his captive's fate , 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell. 

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of riind 

While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,'* 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy ores" 
Sits triiunph — Conrad taken — fall'n th^ rest! 



THE CORSAIR. 



171 



His doom IS fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Mcthinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnare ! — If for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine j 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 

It had not now redeem'd a single hour, 

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack and latest kill." 

"Nay, — Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

"His capture could I — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 

Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance? — thine! 

Fair suitor I — to th}' virtuous gratitude. 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair. 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then, lovely dame, betnniK tnec ! and beware : 

'T is not his life alone may claim such care ! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — 

Now 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 

Know'st thou that I can clip thy v/anton wing? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 

He rose — and slowly, st-ernly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
HoM' deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
She was a slave — from such m.ay captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
Still hall-unconscious — heedless of his wrath. 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 



Again his rage repell'd — until arose 

That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes ! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long anxious — v/eary — still — the same 

RoU'd day and night — his soul could terror tame — 

This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 

When every hour might doom him worse than dead 

When every step that echo'd by the gate, 

Might entering lead where axe and stake await : 

When every voice that grated on his ear 

Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 

Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 

Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 

'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 

That conflict deadlier far than all before : 

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 

But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 

To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 

To gaze on thine own heart, and meditate 

Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 

Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 

To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 

With not a friend to animate, and tell 

To other ears that death became thee well ; 

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie. 

And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 

Before the tortures, which the soul can dare, 

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear , 

But dee{)ly feels a single cry would shame. 

To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim : 

The life thou leavest below, denied above 

By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 

And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 

Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain. 

And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 

And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill ? 

Since not to sink beneath is something still ! 

VII. 

The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 

The second — third — and still she came not there ; 

But what her words avouch'd, lier charms had done, 

Or else he had not seen another sun. 

The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 

Came storm and darkness in their mingling might ; 

Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep. 

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 

And his wild spirit wilder \vishes sent, 

Roused by the roar of his own element ! 

Ofl had he ridden on that winged wave. 

And loved its roughness for the speed it gavt, , 

And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 

A long-known voice — alas ! too vainly near^ 

Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 

Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 

And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 

To him mere genial than the midnight star ; 

Close to the ghmmering grate he dragg'd his chaiii 

And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 

He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 

One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 

His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 

The storm roll'd onward, snd disdain'd to stnko . 



172 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Its peal win d fainter— ceased— he felt alone, 
As if some fi.ithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 

VIII. 

The midnight pass'd— and to the mass}' door, 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once more : 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'1' is as hi.^ heart forboded — that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint. 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came. 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye. 
Which spoke before her accents — " thou must die ! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 

" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they— Conrad still the same 
Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare. 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Why should I seek? because— Oh ! didst thou not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
VYhy should I seek? — hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
And must I say? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes— that heart is moved: 
It fear'd thee — thank'd thee^pitied — maddcn'd — loved, 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again. 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I lush through peril which she v.-ould not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear. 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free. 
Receive this poniard — rise and follow me 1" 

" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread. 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?" 

" Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard. 

Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 

A smgle v.ord of mine removes that chain : 

W ilhout some aid, how here could I remain ? 

W^ell, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime: 

The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed! 

1 see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
Wrong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and it shall be avenged— 
Acvused of what till now my heart disdain' d — 
TcKv faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
Yes, «mile '. hut he had little cause to sneer. 

Wilt not treacherous then — nor thou too dear: 
Bui he has said it — and the jealous well, 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
?)'3seivfi the fate their fretting lips foretell. 



I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring ; he hath said. 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'T was false thou know'st — but let such augurs rvKL 

Their words are omens insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play. 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save^ 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love — that haired are the first — 

Oh! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst mA 

start. 
Nor fear the fire that lights an eastern heart ; 
'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points v.'ithin the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead. 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor S eytl ■ 

" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low: 

Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand. 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast! 

Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 

"Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake. 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 't is but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I '11 try tne firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er— 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply. 
But his glance foUow'd far with eager eye ; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl thcir length, and curb thoir Round, 




(S- UJ IL FT A El 



THE CORSAIR. 



173 



Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 

'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 

Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 

Gleam'd the last star of night, fhe clearing sky : 

Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved, a scarcely closing door 

Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward past, 

Then paused — andturn'd — and paused — 'tis she atlast! 

No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 

"Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill!" 

Again he iook'd, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet-^upon her brow — imknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 't was but a spot — 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 't is blood ! 

X. 

He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 

O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 

He had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain 

Yet on his arms might ever there remain: 

But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 

From all his feelings in their inmost force — 

So thrill'd — so siiudder'd every creeping vein, 

As now thej' froze before that purple stain. 

That spot of blood, that light but gui'':y stre.ak 

Had banish'd all the beautj' from her cheek ! 

Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 

It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 

XI. 

" 'T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine. 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 

She clapp'd her hands-^and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'/i for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor j 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain-wind ! 
But on his heavy heart suc'i sadness sate, 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor card he now if rescued or betray'd ; 



Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIIJ. 

Embark'd, the sail untln-1'd, the light breeze blew — 
How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frowii'd above the mast. 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past ; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand. 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air. 
And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest — 
"Thou may'st forgive, though Alla's self detest , 
But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now ! 
I am not what I seem- -this fearful night 
My brain bewilder' d — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt. 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 

XV. 
She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 
They bleed within that silent cetl — nis breast. 
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge. 
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry. 
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 
She bears her down majestically near. 
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 
A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
"'Tis mine — my blood-red flag! again — again- 
I am not all deserted on the main !" 
They own the signal, answer to the hail, 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
"'Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting Item the deciy 
Command nor duty could their transpoit check! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
They view him mount once more his vessel's side j 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face, ** 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half-forgetting danger and defeat. 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greei. 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand. 
And feels he yet can conquer and command • 

XVI. 

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow. 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow 



•74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



They sai 'd prepared for vengeance — had they knovra 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Cnnrad how they win their way. 
With many an askmg smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appaD'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
Shf. drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Tliough worse than phrensy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, m good or ill. 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 
This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ? 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
What she has done no tears can wash away, 
And heaven must punish on its angry day ; 
But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt. 
For him that pomard smote, that blood was spilt j 
And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled: — faint and 

meek, 
But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
. Tc deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
Tnat fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasp' d that hand — it trembled — and his ovm 
Had lost its firmness, ana nis voice its tone. 
"Gulnare!" — but she rephed not — "dear Gulnare!" 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace ; 
If he had driven her from that resting-place. 
His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest vinue then had join'd the rest. 
i''et even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this. 
The first, the last that frailty stole from faith — 
To lips where love had lavish'd all his breath. 
To hps — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling. 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

XVIII. 
Tney gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle : 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
TJ>e haven hums with many a cheering sound. 
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
The boats v\re darting o'er the curly bay, 
Anri sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 
Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek 
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams. 
Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home. 
Like h(»pe's gay glance from ocean's troubleo foam ? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 



He looks in vain — 't is strange — .ind all remark, 

Amid so many, hers alone is da.'k. 

'T is strange — of yore its welcome newer fail'd, 

Nor now, perchance, extinguishM, only Acl'd. 

With the first boat descends ho for Ihe shore, 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 

With the first pause the resting rowers gav-«5. 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wava, 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, aoil high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd his turret door — ^he paused — no soimd 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembhng hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 't is a well-known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace ; 
Its lips arc silent — twice his own essa}''d, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore. 
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 

XX. 
He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his xook, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain. 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she was so still and fair, 
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
And the cold flowers "^ her colder hand contain 'd, 
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep. 
And made it almost mockerj' yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow. 
And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below- 
Oh ! o'er the eye death most exerts his might. 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse. 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet, they seem as they forbore to smile. 
And wish'd rei)ose — but only for a while ; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind : 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier— 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 

XXI. 
He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years. 
The source of softest wishes, tendercst fears. 
The only living thing he could not hate. 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar 



THE CORSAIR. 



176 



The proud — tiie wayward — who have fix'J below 
fheu- joy — and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with ail dehght? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought Ues hid, not lost 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 
By those, that a—nest feel, is iU exprest 
The indistinctnes. f the suffering breast ; 
VVhere thousand th- ^hts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from aL ne refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept ; 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
^Vhich thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickhng tears — perchance, if seen. 
That useless flood of' grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart. 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart: 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness hke the cloud of mind. 
On grief's vain eye — the bhndest of the blind ! 
Wliich may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 
His neart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot — like that had harden'd too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and hghtning cleaves the rock ; 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow. 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd, — saved till now. 
The thimder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth : 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell, 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 

XXIV. 

T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
Another mom — another bids them seek. 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount— grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 



For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.'' 



NOTES. 



The time in this poem may seem too short for th» 
occurrences ; but the whole of the ^gean isles aro 
vvdthin a few hours' sail of the continent, and the readei 
must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often 
found it. 

Note 1. Page 163, hne 86. 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
Orlando, Canto 10. 

Note 2. Page 164, line 96. 

Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. 

By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every 

stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is 

followed by a slight flash hke sheet lightning from the 

water. 

Note 3. Page 165, line 39. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice. 
Cofl'ee. 

Note 4. Page 165, line 41. 
The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. 
Pipe. 

Note 5. Page 185, line 42. 
While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. 
Dancing-girls. 

Note to Canto II. Page 165, line 55. 

It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised 
as a spy, is out of nature. — Perhaps so. — I find som> 
thing not unlike it in history. 

" Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of 
the A'andals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the 
colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of 
his own ambassauor ; and Genseric was afterwards 
mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and 
dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- 
dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is 
a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in 
the hfe of a hero." Gibbon, D. and F. Vol. VL p. 180. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- 
ture, I shall attempt to prove by some historical coin- 
cidences which I have met Avith since writing *' The 
Corsair." 

"Eccelin prisonnier," dit Roiandini, "s'enfermoii 
dans un silence menacant ; il fixoit sur la terre son visage 
feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde in- 
dioTiation. — De toutes parts cependant les soldats et le» 
peuples accouroient, ils vouloient voir cot homme, jadis 
si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. 
+ ** + ♦ + * + 

" Eccelin etoit d'une petite taille ; mais tout i'aspect 
de sa personne, tons ses mouvcments indiquoier.i ub 
soldat. — Son langage etoit amer, son deportcmer.t su 
perbe — et par son seul regard il faisoit trembler le^i 
plus hardis." Sismondi, tome ni. pp. 219, 220. 

"Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con 
queror of both Carthage and Rome), statura medicwns 



170 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



i:t equi casu cli.udicans, animo profundus, sermone ra- 
rus, luxuriie contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, 
ad soUicitandas gentes providentissimus," etc., etc. 
Jurnandes de Rebus Gedcis, c. 33. 

1 btg leave to quote these gloomy realities, to keep in 
•33untenance rny Giaour and Corsair. 

Note 6. Page 166, line 19. 
And my stern vow and order's laws oppose. 
The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, 
as the Monks. 

Note 7. Page 166, line 54. 
TTiei/ seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 
Satan. 

Note 8. Page 166, line 75. 
He tore his beard, and foaming fied the fi^ht. 
A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. "The 
Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; he plucked 
up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to 
quit the field." 

Note 9. Page 166, line 119. 
Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare. 
Gulnare, a female name ; it means, hterallj-, the 
flower of the pomegranate. 

Note 10. Page 168, line 100. 
Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest! 
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, v.-hen grasping her neck, 
she remarked, that *' it was too slender to trouble the 
headsman much." Dujmg one part of the French Rev- 
olution, it became a fashion to leave some " mot " as a 
legacy ; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken 
during that period, would form a melancholy jest-book 
of a considerable size. 

Note 11. Page 169, line 113. 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day I 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en- 
treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

Note 12. Page 170, K e 10. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country; the days in winter are longer, but in 
summer of shorter duration. 

Note 13. Page 170, line 20. 
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. 
The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall 
intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
liissus has no stream at all. 

Note 14. Page 170, line 30. 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 
Tne opening lines as far as Section II. have, perhaps, 
little business here, and were annexed to an unpub- 
lished, (though printed) poem; but they were written 
or. the spot m the spring of 1811, and — I scarce know 
'^^-y — ihe reader must excu-'p their appearance here if 
he can. 

Note 15. Page 170, .me 116. 
Ms only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 
The cornboloio, or Mahometan rosarv ; the beads are 
in Pumber ninety-nine - 



Note 16. Page 174, hne 98. 
And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd. 
In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on tlic 
bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons 
to place a nosegay. 

Note 17. Page 175, line 65. 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 

That the point of honour which is represented in one 
instance of Conrad's character has not been caiTied 
beyond tlie bounds of probabiUty, n-tiy jierhaps be in 
some degree confirmed by the foU'" ng anecdote of a 
brother buccaneer in the present • <ir, 1814. 

Our readers have all seen th. account of the enter- 
prise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, we be- 
lieve, were informed of the situation, history, or nature 
of that estabhshment. For the information of such as 
were unacquainted with it, we have procured from a 
friend the following interesting narrative of the mam 
facts, of which he has personal knowledge, and which 
cannot fail to interest some of our readers. 

Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of 
Mexico ; it runs through a rich but very flat country, 
until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, 
fifteen miles below the city of New-Orleans. The bay 
has branches almost innumerable, iii which persons 
can He concealed from the severest scrutiny. It com- 
municates with three lakes v.hich lie on the south-west 
side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and 
which lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island 
formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The 
east and west points of this island were fortified in the 
year 1811, by a band of pirates, under the command o( 
one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these out- 
laws are of that class of the population of the state of 
Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo 
during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island 
of Cuba : and ^v■hen the last war between France and 
Spain commenced, the}' were compelled to leave that 
island with the short notice of a few days. AVithout 
ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of 
them the State of Louisiana, with all the negroes they 
had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Gov- 
ernor of that State of the clause in the constitution 
which forbad the importation of slaves ; but, at the 
same time, received the assurance of the Governor tliat 
he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the gen- 
eral Government for their retaining this property. 

The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29. deg. 
15 min. Ion. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for its health as 
for the superior scale and shell-fish with which its waters 
abound. The chief of this horde, hke Charles deMoor, 
had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the 5'ear 
1813, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, 
claimed the attenlionof the Governor of Louisiana; and 
to break up the establishment, he thought proper to 
strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward of cCO 
dollars for the head of INIonsieur La Fitte, who was v, ell 
known to the inhabitants of the city of New- Orleans, 
from his immediate connexion, and his or ;e having been 
a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which 
art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he Uds a 
Captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor 
for the head of La Fitte was i^nswereo pvthe offer of a 
reward from the latter of 15,000 foi the head of the 
Governor. The Governor oraered out a cc nipany to 



LARA. 



rtirirch from the city to La Fitte's island, and to burn and 
dijstroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New- 
Orleans all his banditti. This company, under the com- 
mand of a man who had been the intimate associate of 
this bold Captain, approached very near *o the fortified 
ii! and, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he 
heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it 
was he found himself surrounded by armed men, who 
had emerged from the secret avenues which led into 
Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor 
developed his few noble traits ; for to this man, who had 
come to destroy his life, and all tliat was dear to him, he 
not only spared his life, but offered him that which would 
have made the honest soldier easy for the remainder of 
his days, which was indignantly refused. He then, with 
the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This 
circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that 
tills band of pii-ates was not to be taken by land. Our 
naval force having always been small in that quarter, 
exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment 
could not be expected from them until augmented ; for 
an officer of the navy, with most of the gun-boats on 
tliat station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force 
of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the 
navy authorized an attack, one was made ; the over- 
throw of this banditti has been the result ; and now this 
almost invulnerable point and key to New- Orleans is 
clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the government 
will hold it by a strong military force. — From an Ameri- 
can Newspaper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical 
Dictionary, there is a singular passage in his account of 
archbishop Blackboume, and as in some measure con- 
nected v.'ith the profession of the hero of the foregoing 
poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it : 

"There is something mysterious in the history and 
character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but im- 
perfectly known ; and report has even asserted he was 
a buccaneer ; and that one of his brethren in that pro- 
fession having asked, on his arrival in England, what 
had become of his oU chum, Blackbourne, was an- 



swered, he ib Archbishop of York. \Ye are informed, 
that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter \c 
1694, which office he resigned in 1702: but after h's 
successor, Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained 
it. In the following year he became dean ; and, in 1714, 
held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was cop 
secrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; ani 
translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, 
according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have 
been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop, he behaved 
with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the 
guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whis- 
pered he retamed the vices of his youth, and that a 
passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his 
weaknesses ; but so far from being convicted by seventy 
witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly 
criminated by one. In short, I look upon these asper- 
sions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a 
buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Black- 
bourne certainly was V he v»ho had so perfect a know- 
ledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek trage- 
dians), as to be able to read them with the same ease 
as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains 
to acquire the learned languages ; and have had both 
leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly 
educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He is al- 
lowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, was 
turned against him, by its being said, ' he gained more 
hearts than souls.' " 

" The only voice that could soothe the passions of the 
savage (Alphonso 3d) was that of an amiable a.nd vir 
tuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of 
Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, 
and the grand-daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. — 
Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; his fierca 
spirit melted into tears ; andj after the last embrace, 
Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irre- 
parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human 
life." — JMiscellaneoux Works of Gibbon, new edition^ 
Svo. vol. S. page 473. 



A TALE. 



CANTO I. 



I. 

The serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
\nd slavery half forgets her feudal chain,- 
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord. 
The lon^' self-exiled chieftain is restored : 
There be bright faces m the busy hall. 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
Far checkering o'er the pictured %vindow, plays 
The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
VYitii tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 
T 28 



n. 

The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding mam? 
Lefl by his sire, too young such loss to know. 
Lord ^f himself; — that heritage of woe — 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the wav to crime , 
Then, when he most required commandment, *hei 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace 
His vouth throuirh all the mazes of ns race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undon*;. 



178 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



III. 

And Lara left in ) outh his father-land ; 
But from the hoiu- he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'1' was all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died : 
"Yet doth he live ?" exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred 'scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file. 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness. 

And whence they know not, why they need not guess ; 

They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 

Not that he came, but came not long before : 

No train in his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roU'd on, and fast they speed away. 

To those that wander as to those that stay : 

But lack of tidings from another clime, 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary time. 

They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is pass'd his manhood's prime. 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time ; 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late we-e known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 

V. 

And they indeed were changed — 't is quickly seen 
Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had been : 
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last. 
And spake of passions, but of passion past ; 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 
A high demeanour, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
That darts in seeming playfulness around. 
And makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 
All these seem'd his, and something more beneath, 
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim. 
That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 
Williin his breast appear'd no more to strive, 
Vet seeir.'d as lately they had been alive ; 
And some deep feeling it wei-e vain to trace 
ft.t moments lighten'd o'e*" his hvid face. 



VL 

Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow-man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again. 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, linked in high command, 
He mingled with the magnates of his land ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay. 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away: 
But still he only saw, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 
With hope still bafHed, still to be renew'd ; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain. 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof. 
That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
And things more timid that beheld him near. 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear : 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confest 
They deem'd hun better than his air exprest. 

VIII. 

'T was strange — in youth all action and all life. 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd ail below. 
And found his recompense in joy or woe, 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had iook'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan. 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
From all communion he would start away . 
And then, his rarely-call'd attendants said. 
Through night's long hours would sound his hui nea 

tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper'd, " that must not be kl-lO^\ ii— 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they wlio chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should huvi 

been. 



LARA. 



179 



Wh}' gazed he so upon the ghastly head 

Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead, 

That still beside his open'd volume lay, 

As if lo startle all save him away ? 

Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 

Why heard no music, and received no guest? 

All was not weii they deem'd — but where the wrong ? 

Some knew perchance — but 't v.ere a tale too long ; 

x\nd such besides were too discreetly wise, 

To more than hint their knowledge in surmise : 

But if they would — they could" — around the board. 

Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 

X. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam : 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky : 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree. 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would oflfer to her love, 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there • 

Secure tliat nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But tm-n'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate; 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 

No — no^the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 

XI. 

He tum'd within Iiis solitary hall, 
And his high shadow shot along the wall ; 
There were the painted fbrms of other times, 
'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults ; 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies hke truth, and still most truly Ues. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone. 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer. 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom. 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 

'T was midnight — ail was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth lo break the night. 



Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave. 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands. 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands, 

xm. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 

Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd. 

Was Lara stretch'd j his half- drawn sabre near, 

Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear j 

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 

And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay. 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 

Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 

Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook. 

Even in its trance, the gladiator's look. 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 

And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear him; hush ! he breathes, hespcate 

The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 

His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 

Rolls wide and wild, each slowly-quivering limb 

Recalls its function, but his words are strung 

In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 

Distinct, but strange, enough they un 'erstand 

To deem them accents of another lai d ; 

And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 

That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ' 

XIV. 

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 

To know the import of the words they heard , 

And, by the changes of his cheek and brow^. 

They were not such as Lara should avow. 

Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 

Than those around their chieftain's state he eves , 

But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 

And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied ; 

And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 

To soothe away the horrors of his dream. 

If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 

A breast that heeded not ideal woe. 

XV. 

Whate'er his phrensy dream'd or eye behelu. 
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd, 
Rests at his heart. — The 'custom'd morning carne^ 
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
And, soon the same in movement and in speech. 
As heretofore he fiU'd the passing hours, 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours, 
Than these were wont ; and if the coming nisht 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's signr, 
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it nut, 
W^hose shuddering proved iheir fear was less forger 
In trembhng pairs (alone thcj^ dare not) crawl 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall r 
The waving 1 anner, and the clapping door. 
The rustlmg tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 



ISO 



BYRON'S WORK^. 



The lonj' dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze ; 
Aught they beliold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravcli'd gloom 

Came not again, or Lara could assume 

A seeming of forgotfulness, that made 

His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 

Had memory vanish'd then with sense restor'd ? 

Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 

Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 

That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 

Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 

Those strange wild accents ? his the cry that broke 

Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'er-labour'd heart 

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start? 

Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget, 

When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? 

Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 

J'oo deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 

In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 

The heart to show the effect, but nn- the cause? 

Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 

Nor common gazers could discern the growth 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half-told ; 

I'hey choke the feeble words thai would unfold. 

XVII. 

In him inexplical. v mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and feai''d ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 

In pi aise or railing ne'er his name forgot ; 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his fate. 

What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 

Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 

A hater of his kind ? yet some would say. 

With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 

But own'd, that smile, if oft observed and near, 

Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 

That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 

None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye :. 

Yet there was softness too in his regard. 

At times, a heart as not by nature hard. 

But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 

Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 

And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 

One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem ; 

In self-inflicted penance of a breast 

Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; 

In vigilance of grief that would compel 

That soul to hate for having loved too well. 

xvni. 

rhitc was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall. 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An «rrmg spirit from another hurl'd ; 
A thmg of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By i-.hoice the perils he by chance escaped , 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret : 
With more capa'-ity for love than earth 
Bestows OP most of mortal mou'd and birth. 



His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 

And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 

With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 

And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 

And fiery passions tliat had pour'd their wrath 

In hurried desolation o'er his path. 

And left the better feelings all at strife 

In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 

But haughty still, and loth himself to hlarne, 

He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 

And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 

She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 

Till he at last confounded good and ill, 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others' good, 

But not in pity, not because he ought, 

But in some strange perversity of thought, 

That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 

The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all w ho shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own: 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below. 

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 

Ah ! happier if it ne'er w^ith guilt had glow'd. 

But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 

'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd. 

Nor outraged reason's rules by flaw nor start, • 

His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 

And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 

His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 

XIX. 

With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen. 
He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It w^as not love jierchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought j 
But they who saw hun did not see in vain. 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well. 
And on the words, however hght, would dwell: 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
There he was stamp'd in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all-unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth a"- lofty Unes.ge tlamas 



LARA. 



181 



Appear — a high-born and a welcome guest, 
To Otho's liall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; 
And the gaj- dance of bounding beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands ; 
ii is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXL 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance, follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 

Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there: 

He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long attentive eye. 

Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 

111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 

At length he caught it, 't is a face unkno\\'n. 

But seems as searching his, and hi« alone ; 

Prying and dark, a stranger's jy his mien. 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 

At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 

Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 

On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 

As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 

Along the stranger's aspect fLx'd and stern, 

Plash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXIL 

'• 'T is he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard 

Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

" 'T is he !" — " 'T is who ?" they question far and near. 

Till louder accents rung on Lara^s ear ; 

So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 

The general marvel, or that single look : 

But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 

That sprung at first to his arrested eyes, 

Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised, 

Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 

And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 

" 'T is he! — how came he thence ? — what doth he here?" 

xxin. 

It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such question, so repeated fierce and high ; 
With look collected, but with accent cold. 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold. 
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
"My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known. 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlock' d-for courtesj' of such a knight. 
'T is Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask, 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

*' Thou shun'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun ? 
And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again ! 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, . 
Eternitv forbids thee to forget." 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 



They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook. 
And half-contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer hern 
To one who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 
But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

" Whate'er I be. 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wond'rous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his poiish'd guest. 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprest.'' 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
'* Whate'er there be between you undisclosed. 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mu-thful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou. Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which It befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted 'ine belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord deny." 
" To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
" And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 
I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
My words, so may I mingle with the blest !" 
What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
The words of many, and the eyes of all 
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall j 
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
In far forgelfulness away — away — 
Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

"To-morrov/! — ay, to-morrow!" further word 

Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 

Upon his brow no outward passion spoke. 

From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 

Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone. 

Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 

He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 

And, pass'mg Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 

And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the i/rowp 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear him do^vn 

It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride, 

That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 

But that of one in his own heart secure 

Of all that he would do, or could endure. 

Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good*^ 

Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 

Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 

For man to trust to mortal look or speech , 



From deeds, and deeds alone, may 1-e discern 
Prulhs which it wrings the unpractised iieart to learn. 

XXV. 

And Lara cail'd liis page, and went his waj' — 
\Vt\l could that stripling word or sign obey: 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not imknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home : 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear. 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVL 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate. 
But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show- 
All the heart's hue in that dehghted glow ; 
But 't w^as a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes fringe, 
Had temper'd with a melanchol}' tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there. 
Or if 't were grief, a grief that none should share : 
And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
The tricks of youth, the frolics ot" the page : 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance. 
As all-forgotten in t-hat watchful trance ; 
y\nd from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone. 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook 
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVIL 

If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown 

His faith m reverence and in deeds alone ; 

III mute attention ; a,nd his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fnlfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A fepint deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

Hh zeal, though more than that of sers'ile hands, 

.n act ali.ne obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 't was Lara's less than Kis desire 

That th.is he served, but surely not for hire, 

Sl-ahi wore the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

1 o tune his lute, or if hu wiil'd it more, 

'Jp 'omes or otner times and tongues to pore ; 



But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve, which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that famil.ar crew ; 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem. 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cher-«, 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 

iVIore wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 

But, from his aspect, might be m.ore than guess'd 

Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 

Another, ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply, 

A-s unfamiliar, or, if roused again. 

Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 

Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXVIII. 

He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 

And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 

And when the crowd around and near him told 

Tlieir wonder at the calmness of the bold ; 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore. 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The hp of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 

And o'er his brow the damp'ning heart-drops threw 

The sickening iciness of that cold dew. 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there be things that we must dream and dare, 

And execute ere thought be half aware : 

Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To seal his '.ip, but agonize his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; 

When Kaled saw that smile, his visage fell, 

As if on something recognised right well ; 

His memory read in such a meaning, more 

Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 

And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 

Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien. 

All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene. 

That when his long dark shadow through the porcft 

No more relieves the glare of yon high torch. 

Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seerr 

To bound, as doubting from too black a dream, 

Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth. 

Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 

And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there. 

With thoughtful visage and imperious air : 

But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired, 

He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellei-s at rest ; 
The courteous host, and all-approving fvrnsX 



LARA. 



133 



Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 

W^Jiere joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 

And man, o'er-labour'd with his being's strife, 

Shrinks to that sweet forgetfuhiess of life: 

There lie love's feverish hope and cunning's guile, 

Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile : 

O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 

And quench'd existence crouches m a grave. 

What better name may slumber's bed become ? 

Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 

Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 

Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath. 

Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast. 

That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



CANTO II. 



I. 

Night wanes — tne vapours round the mountains curl'd 

Melt into morn, and light awakes the world. 

Man lias another day to swell the past, 

And lead him near to little, but his last ; 

But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth. 

The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 

Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 

Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 

Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 

And cry, exulting inly, "they are thine !" 

Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 

A morrow comes when they are not tor thee : 

And grieve what may above thy senseless bier. 

Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 

Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 

Nor gale breathe Orth one sigh for thee, for all ; 

But creeping things shall revel in their spoil. 

And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 

n. 

'T is morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd cliieftains come to Otho's call ; 
'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The uie or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

in. 

The hour is past, and L'ara too is there. 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past. 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's o'ercast. 
" I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
\or had Sir Ezzehn his host disdain'd, 
r?ul that some previous proof forbade him stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to day ; 



The word I pledged for his I pledge again. 

Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

He ceased — and Lara answer'd, "I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, * 

Whose words already might mv heart have wrung. 

But that I deem'd him scarcel}' less than mad. 

Or, at the v/orst, a foe ignoblv bad. 

I know him not — but me it seems he knew 

In lands where — but I must not trifle too : 

Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge : 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho, on the instant, reddening, threw 

His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 

" The last alternative befits me best. 

And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his own or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed ; 

For Otho's phrensy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lip those words of insult fell — 

" His sword is good who can maintain them well." 

IV. 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash. 

Vain Otho gave his bobom to the gash : 

He bled, and fell, but not with deadly wound, 

Stretch'd by a dexterous sleight along the ground. 

" Demand thy life :" He answer'd not : and then 

From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 

And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow , 

Then all was stern collectedness and art. 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd. 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheit 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent : 

Yet look'd he on him stiil with eye intent. 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, ho\ve'er o'erthrown, with life : 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech , 
The others met within a neighbouring ha\\, 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he tooSr, 
Nor cast on Otho's tovrers a single look. 

VI. 

But where was he ? that meteor of a night. 
Who menaced but to disappear with light? 
Where was this Ezzelin? who c?:ne ana wera. 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 



!84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



lie left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it: near his dwelling la}^ ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
[lis host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest. 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath: 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale. 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonized hands, that cease to guard. 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward, 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd. 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd 
Again its wonted wondering to renew. 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 
Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 
But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd: 
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 
The friend of all who sought to work him woe. 
Ana from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezzclin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence ? who had made him disappear. 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he left at large? 
The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 
Tlie skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? 
Wher? had that fierceness grown upon his heart? 
For it was not the blind capricious rage 
A wor 1 can kindle and a word assuage ; 
But tb^ deep working of a soul unmix'd 
With -lught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 
Such 'iS long power and overgorged success 
Cone Titrates into all that 's merciless : 
Thes' , link'd with that desire which ever sways 
JManV nd, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gair 1 Lara gatheiing raised at length a storm, 
Sucb IS himself might fear, and foes would form, 
And '-e must answer for the absent head 
Of o> 3 that haunts hiin still, alive or dead. 

VIII. 
Wil' ^n that land was many a malcontent, 
Wh <;ursed the tyranny to which he bent , 
Thu • soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
Wb ' work''J his wantonness in form of law ; 
Loi f war y\-ithou. and frecjuent broil within 
Hw- uiddc a path for blood and giant sin, 
rh''\. WHt'eVl but a signal to begin 



New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 

Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord. 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 

But that long absence from his native clime 

Had left him stainless of ojjpression's crime, 

And now diverted by his milder sway, 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away ; 

The menials felt their usual awe alone. 

But more for him than them that fear was grown , 

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 

And each long restless night, and silent mood. 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 

From ihence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 

Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high. 

The humble pass'd net his unheeding eye ; 

Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And they who watched might mark that day by day, 

Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 

But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 

He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 

Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 

Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head. 

Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 

With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 

If this were policy, so far 'twas sound. 

The million judged but of him as they found ; 

From him, by sterner chiefs to exile driven. 

They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 

By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot. 

And scarce the serf could murmur ** -^r his lot ; 

With him old Avarice found its hoara secure, 

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 

Youth, present cheer, and promised recompense 

Detained, till all too late to part from thence : 

To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 

To love, long bafiied by the unequal match. 

The well-won charms success was sure to snatch, 

All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

That slavery nothing which was stiil a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 

His summons found the destined criminal 

Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 

Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven. 

Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves, 

Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 

Such is their cry — some watch-word for the fight 

Must vindicate the wrong, and warj) the right : 

Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 

A word 's enough to raise m.ankind to kill : 

Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 

IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 





LARA. 1 85 


Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 


In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 


The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both : 


To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 


They waited but a leader, and they found 


In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, — 


One to their cause inseparably bound ; 


The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame _ 


By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 


The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood. 


In selt-defence, amidst the strife of men. 


And shown their rashness to their erring brood : 


Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 


The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 


Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 


The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 


Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 


The long privation of the hoped supply. 


Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst: 


The tentless rest beneath the humid sky. 


Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 


The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 


Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 


And palls the patience of his battled heart. 


By mingling with his own the cause of all, 


Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 


E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 


They could encounter as a veteran may 


The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 


But more preferr'd the fury of the u^rife. 


The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 


And present death to hourly suffering life 


Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 


And famine Avrings, and fever sweeps away 


His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 


His numbers melting fast from their array ; 


Burst forth, and made him all he once had been. 


Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 


And is again ; he only changed the scene. 


And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 


Light care had he lor life, and less for fame, 


But few remam to aid his voice and hand. 


But not less fitted for the desperate game : 


And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: 


He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate. 


Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 


And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 


To mourn the disciphne they late disdain'd. 


What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 


One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 


Ho raised the humble but to bend the proud. 


And thence they may escape from native war ; 


He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 


And bear within them to the neighbouring state 


But man and destiny beset him there ; 


An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 


Inured to hunters, he was found at bay, 


Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 


A n^' ^ hey must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 


But harder still to perish or submit. 


oiern, unambitious, silent, he had been 




Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene; 


XII 


But, dragg'd again upon the arena, stood, 


It is resolved— they march— consenting Night 


A leader not unequal to the feud ; 


Guides with her star their dim and torchless fligh* 


In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 


Already they perceive its tranquil beam 


And from his eye the gladiator broke. 


Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 




Ab-eady they aescry — Is yon the bank? 


X. 


Away ! 'i is lined with many a hostile rank. 


What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife. 


Return or fly !— What glitters in the rear? 


The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 


'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 


The varying fortune of each separate field. 


Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height ? 


The fierce that vanquish and the faint that yield ? 


Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 


The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 


Cut off" from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 


In this the struggle was the same with all ; 


Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil 


Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 




In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 


xm. 


None sued, for ]Mercy knew her cry was vain. 


A moment's pause, 't is but to breathe their band, 


The captive died upon the battle-plain : 


Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 


In either cause, one rage alone possest 


It matters little — if they charge the foes 


The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 


Who by the border-stream their march oppose, 


And they tnat smote for freedom or for sway, 


Some few, perchance, may break and pass the linf 


Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 
It was too late to check the wasting brand. 


However link'd to baffle such design. 


" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assau.. 


And desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 


Were fate well worthy of a coward's h.-x-lt." 


The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 


Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 


And carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 


And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed ■ 


- 


In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 


XL 


How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 


Fresh with the ntrve the new-born impulse strunc, 




The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 


XIV 


But that vain victory hath ruin'd all. 


His blade is bared, m him there is an air 


They form no longer to their leader's call ; 


As deep, but far too tranquil for despair , 


In blind confusion on the foe they press. 


A something of indifference more than then 


And think to snatch is to secure success. 


Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men — 


The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate. 


He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 


Lure on the broken brigands to their fate j 
29 


And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I'ercnance 't was but the moon's Jim twilight threw 

Along his aspect an unwonted hue 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 

The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 

This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his . 

It trembled not in such an hour a? this ; 

His lip was silent, scarcely beat i-.s heart, 

His eye alone proclaini'd, " We will not part . 

Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 

Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee !" 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 

Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; 

Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 

And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel : 

Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 

Despair to daring, and a front to toes ; 

And blood is minglfed with the dashing stream, 

Which runs all redly till the morning beam, 

XV. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall. 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
But those that waver turn to smite again. 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high. 
And shook — wny sudaen droops that plumed crest? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins : 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow. 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Begiules his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XVI. 

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
The- war-horse masterless is on the earth. 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with v;hat life remain'd, 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
And some too near that rowing torrent lie. 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
.n vair 'mpels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop— the last— to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept. 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
They fee) its freshnests, and almost partake — 
Why nauso V No further thirst have they to slake — 



It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was ar. agony — but now forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

'T was Lara, bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now his only guide. 

Kneels Kaled, -wa-tchful o'er his welling side. 

And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush. 

With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page. 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim. 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field. 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 't were vam, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and, leaping from his steed. 
Looks on the Weeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state : he answers not. 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
And turns to Kaled: — each remaining word, 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue. 
To which some strange remembrance wiidiy clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled. whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound. 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto tne last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate. 
Whose darkness none b'iside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words, though faint, were many — from the tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's deal 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath. 
So sad, so deep and hesitating, broke 
The accents his scarco*moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near, 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless. 
Save that, when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye w^as kindly cast ; 
And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast. 
Rose Lara's h ml, and pointed to the East: 
Whether (as then the breaking sun from higfi 
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye. 
Or that 't was chance, or some remsmber'd scene 
That raised his arm to point where such had ^(^en, 



Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away 

As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 

And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 

To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 

Yet sense seern'd left, though better were its loss ; 

For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 

And proffer'd to his touch tht holy bead. 

Of which his parting soul might own the need, 

He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 

And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdain : 

And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 

From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view. 

With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 

Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 

As if such but disturb'd the expiring man. 

Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 

That life of immortality, secure 

To none, save them whose faith in Ch-'v-i ;s sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 

The weak, yet still untiring knee that bore ; 

He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 

It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 

With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels m vain 

For that faint throb which answers not again. 

" It beats !" Away, thou dreamer ! — he is gone — 

It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trance. 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when, in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that felt no more. 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain. 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair. 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

.Vhe breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast. 

Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; 

And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 

What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ! 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep ; 

But where he died his grave was dug as deep, 

Nor is his mortal slumber less profound. 

Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound; 

And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 

Jjess loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 

Vain was all question ask'd her of the past. 

And vain even menace — silent to the last, 

She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 

Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 

Wfty did she love him? Curious fool ! — be still — 

Is numan Icve the growth of human will ? 



To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common hnks, that form'd the cnaii 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain , 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast. 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest. 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of hfe, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt. 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale), 
A serf that cross'd the intervening vale. 
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn. 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood. 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow. 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that it might be crime. 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And, lifting thence the burtlien which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd 

watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean , 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
And something gfitter'd star-like on the vest. 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment ^mote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again but indistinct to view. 
And left the waters of a purple hue. 
Then deeply disappear'd : che horseman gazed 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
And instant spurr'd him into pant'rng speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead. 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such 't i* known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such z morn. 



J 38 



BVRON'S WORKS. 



If llius l«.e p' rish'd, Hea en receive his soul ! 
His undisco\ er'd limbs lo ocean roll ; 
And charitj- upon ihe hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand ty which he fell. 

XXV. 
And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelui, are gone, 
Alike without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering w here her chieftain's blood had been ; 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet slie scarce believed that he was not. 
Her eye shot forth with all the li\ing fire 
That haunts the tigress in her w helpless ire : 
But, left to waste her wean.- rm^ments there, 
She taJk'd all idly unto shapes of air. 
Such as the busy brain of sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
^Vnd she would sit beneath the ver}* tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, liis looks, his dving £rasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 
As if she staimch'd anew some phantom's woimd. 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some iraasined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some Unden's root, 
And hide her visage wiih her meagre hand. 
Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
This could not last — she Ues bj' him she loved ; 
Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 



XOTE. 



The eveiit in section 24, Canto 11, was suggested by 
»he description of tlie death, or rather burial, of rhe 
Duke of Gandia. 

The most interesting and particular account of this 
mysterious event, is given by Burchard ; and is in sub- 
stance as follows: "On the eighth day of June, the 
cardinal of Valenza, and the Duke of Gandia, sons of 
the Pope, supped with their mother, Vanozza, near the 
church of S. Pietro ad vinculo ; several other persons 
beinjj present at the entertainment- A late hour ap- 
proachmg, and the cardinal having reminded Ins brother, 
that it was time lo return to the apostolic palace, they 
mounted liieir horses or mules, with only a few attend- 
ants, and proceeded together as far as the palace of 
cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to pay 
a visit of pleasure. Dismissing, therefore, all his at- 
tendants, excepting his staffiero, or footman, and a 
Dersoa in a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at 
supper, and who, during the space of a month, or there- 
abouts, previous to this time, had called upon him 
almost daily, at the apostohc palace ; he took this per- 
son behind him on his mule, and proceeded to the 
street of Lhe Jews, where he quitted his servant, direct- 
ing turn to remain there imtil a certain hour ; when, 
i h« did not return, he might repair to the palace. 



The duke then seated the person in tlie mask behina 
him, cuid rode, I know not wliither ; but in that night 
he was assassinated, and thrown into the river. The 
servant, after having been dismissed, was also assaulted 
and mortally wounded ; and although he was attended 
with great care, yet such was his situation, that he 
could give no intelligible account of what had befallen 
his master. In the morning, the duke not having re- 
turned to the palace, his servemts began to be alarmed ; 
and one of them infomied the pontiff of the evening 
excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not yet 
made liis appearance. This gave tlie Pope no small 
anxiety ; but he conjectured tliat 'he duke had been 
attracted by some courtesan to pass the night with 
her, zuid, not choosing lo quit the house in open day, 
j had waited till the following evening to return home. 
j When, however, the evening arrived, and he found 
j himself disappointed in his expectations, he became 
i deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries from 
' different persons, whom he ordered to attend him for 
i that purpose. Amongst these was a man named Gior- 
' gio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some timber 
j from a bark in the river, had remained on board me 
vessel, to watch it, and being interrogated whether he 
had seen any one thrown into the river, on the night 
; preceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, 
' who came down the street, and looked diligently about, 
j to observe whether any person was passing. That see- 
; ing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards 
1 two otiiers came, and looked aroimd in the same 
j manner as the former ; no person still appearing, they 
} gave a sign to their companions, when a man came, 
' mounted on a w hite horse, having behind him a dead 
. body, the head and arms of which hung on one side, 
and the feet on the other side of the horse ; the two 
persons on foot supporting the body, to prevent its 
falling. Tney thus proceeded towcirds that part, where 
the filth of the city is usually discharged into the river, 
and, turning tlie horse with his tail towards the water, 
the two persons took the dead body by the arms and 
feet, and with ah their strength fiimg it into the river. 
The pereon on horseback then asked il' they had thrown 
it in, to which they rephed. Signer, «', {yes, Sir). He 
then looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle 
floating on the stream, he inquired what it was that 
appeared black ; to which they answered, it was a 
mantle; and one of them threw stones upon it, in 
consequence of which it sunk. The attendants of the 
pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, why he had not 
revealed this to the governor of the city ; to which he 
replied, that he had seen in his time a hundred dead 
bodies throv.-n into the river at the same place, without 
any inquirv- being made respecting them, and that he 
had not, therefore, considered it as a matter of any 
importaiice. The fishermen and seamen were then 
collected, and ordered lo search the river ; where, on 
the following evening, they foimd the body of the 
duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in hia 
purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one of 
which was in his throat, the others in his head, body, 
and limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed of 
the death of his son, and that he had been thrown, 
like filth, into the river, than, giving way to his griei, 
he shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. 
The cardinal of Segovia, and other attendants on the 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



189 



Pope wont to the door, and after many hours spent in 
persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon him to 
admit them. From the evening of Wednesday, till the 
following Saturday, the Pope took no food ; nor did he 
sleep from Thursday morning till the same hour on the 



ensuing day. At length, hcvever, giving way to ilie 
entreaties of his attendants, he began to restrani hi? 
sorrow, and to consider the injury which his own 
health might sustain, by the further indulgence of his 
grief." — jRoscoe's Leo Tenth, vol. i. page 265. 



A POEM, 



Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 

Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 

On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle. 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 

Though there his altars are no more divine. 

Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse, 

More deeply purpled, met his mellowing glance, 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven; 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 

Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast. 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
JIow watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!' 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where Phcebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head. 
The cup of woe was quaff 'd — the spirit fled ; 
The so i\ of him that scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died as none can live or die ! 

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.^ 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmaring as the moon-beams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And bright around, with quivering beams beset. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret: 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay Kioskj^* 
And, dun and sombre 'niid the holj calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hvies, arrest the eye— 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

u 



Again the iEgean, heard no more afar. 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 

As thus within the walls of Pallas' fane 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone and friendless, on the magic shore 
Whose arts and arms but live in poet's lore. 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
And glory knew no clime beyond her Greece. 
Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky. 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god ; 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine, when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and measured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race. 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode. 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode. 
Yes, 't was Minerva's self, but, ah ! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ' 
Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand; 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle ^gis bore no gorgon now ; 
Her helm was deep indented, and her lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless, e'en to mortal glance; 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp. 
Shrunk from her touch and wither'd in her grasp : 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe 
" Mortal ! ('twas thus she spake) that blush of shai* 
Proclaims thee Briton — once a noble name — 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free. 
Now honour'd less by all — and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found : — 
Seek'st thou the cause? O mortal, look arounu! 
Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies exo'ie ; 




'Scaped from the ravar,e of the Turk and Goth, 

Thy country sends a spoiler v.-orse than boh. ! 

Survey this vacant violated fane : 

Recount the relics torn that yet remain ; 

Thest Cecrops placed — this Pericles adom'd* — 

That Hadrian rear'd when drooping science mourn'd : 

What more I owe let gratitude attest — 

Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 

That all may learn from whence the plunder came, 

The insulted wall sustains his hated name.* 

For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads : 

Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 

Be ever hail'd witli equal honour here 

The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer. 

Arms gave the first his right — the last had none, 

But basely stole what less barbarians won ! 

So when the lion quits his fell repast, 

Next prowls the wolf — the filthy jackal last: 

Flesh, limbs, and blood, the former make their own ; 

The last base brute securely gnaws the bone. 

Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are crost — 

See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 

Another name with his pollutes my shrine. 

Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! 

Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 

When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame. "^ 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply. 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : — 
" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim ! 
Frown not on England — England owns him not — 
Athena, no ! the plunderer was a Scot !'' 
Ask thou the difference ? From fair Phyle's towers 
Survey Bceotia — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land ' 
Hath wisdom's goddess never held command: 
A barren soil, where nature's germs, confined, 
To stern sterility can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth. 
Each genial influence nurtiued to resist, 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist: 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzling brain, 
Till, burst at length, each watery head o'erflows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows : 
Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide ; 
Some east, some west, some every where but north ! 
In quest of lawless gain they issue forth ; 
And thus, accursed be the day and year. 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet, Caledonia claims some native worth, 
As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth — 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors o'er the grave, 
SnaKe oti" the sordid dust of such a land. 
And shine like cniiaren of a happier strand: 
A.5> once of yore, in some obnoxious place, 
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race!" 

" Mortal," the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once more, 
Bftv" back my mandate to thy native shore ; 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance still is mine, 
Te tunj my coimcils <ar from lands like thine. 



Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 

Hear and believe, for time shall tell the rest. 

First on the head of him who did the deed 

My curse shall light, — on him and all his seed : 

Without one spark of intellectual fire, 

Be all the sons as senseless as the sire . 

If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 

BeUeve him bastard of a brighter race ; 

Still with his hireling artists let him prate, 

And folly's praise repay for wisdom's hate ! 

Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 

Whose noblest native gusto — is to sell : 

To sell, and make (may shame record the day!; 

The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey ! 

Meantime, the flattering feeble dotard, West, 

Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best^ 

With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er. 

And own himself an infant of fourscore :' 

Be ail the bruisers call'd from all St. Giles, 

That art and nature may compare their styles , 

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 

And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there.'" 

Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs crcrp, 

To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep, 

W^hile many a languid maid, with longing sigh. 

On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 

The room with transient glance appears to skim. 

Yet marks the mighty back and length of hmb, 

Mourns o'er the difference of now and then ; 

Exclaims, ' these Greeks indeed were proper men ;' 

Draws slight comparisons of these with those, 

And envies Lais all her Attic beaux : 

When shall a modern maid have swains like these ? 

Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 

And, last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 

Some calm spectator, as he takes his view,'' 

In silent indignation, mix'd with grief. 

Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 

Loathed throughout tife — scarce pardon'd in the dust, 

May hate pursue his sacr\iegious lust! 

Link'd with the fool who fii'ed the Ephesian dome. 

Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb ; 

Erostratus and Elgin e'er shall shine 

In many a branding page and burning line ! 

Alike condemn'd for aye to stand accursed — 

Perchance the second viler than the first ; 

So let him stand through ages yet unborn, 

Fix'd statue on the pedestal of scorn ! 

Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 

But fits thy country for her coming fate : 

Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 

To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 

Look to the Baltic blazing from afar — 

Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war : 

Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid. 

Or break the compact which herself had made ; 

Far from such councils, from the faithless field. 

She fled — but left behind her gorgon shield ; 

A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone. 

And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

Look to the east, where Ganges' swarthy race 

Shall shake your ururpation to its base ; 

Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 

And glares the Nemesis of native dead. 

Till Indus rolls a deep purpurea! tiood. 

And claims his long arrear of northerr blood. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



iOl 



So may ye perish I Palla,s, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 
Look on your Spain, she clasps the hand she hates, 
But coldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barrossa, thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
While Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
Can spare a few to fight and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by famine fiercely won ; 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat? 
Look last at home — ye love not to look there, 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair ; 
Your city saddens, loud though revel howls. 
Here famine faints, and yonder rapine prowls : 
See all alike of more or less bereft — 
No misers tremble when there 's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit' '^ who shall dare to sing? 
It clogs Uke lead corruption's weary wing : 
Yet Pallas plucked each Premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hearj 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. 
On Pallas calls, but calls, alas ! too late ! 
Then raves for*** ; '-^ to that Mentor bends. 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends : 
Ilim senates hear whom never yet they heard. 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd: 
So once of yore each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign log ; 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well, enjoy your little hour ; 

Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power; 

Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme, 

Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 

Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 

And pirates barter all that 's left behind ;"^ 

No more the hirelings, purchased near and far. 

Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war; 

The idle merchant on the useless quay 

Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away. 

Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 

Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores ; 

The starved mechanic breaks his rustic loom, 

And, desperate, mans him 'gainst the common doom. 

Then in the senate of your sinking state. 

Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 

Vain is each voice whose tones could once command ; 

Even factions cease to charm a factious land ; 

While jarring sects convulse a sister isle. 

And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 

" 'T is done, ' tis past, since Pallas warns in vain, 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign ; 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands. 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles ; 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum. 
That bid the foe defiance '^''^r thpv come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call, 
The glorious death that decorates his fiaJi, 



Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 

And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 

But know, a lesson you may yet be taught — 

With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 

Not in the conflict havoc seeks delight — 

His day of mercy is the day of fight ; 

But when the field is fought, the battle w on, 

Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun. 

His deeper deeds ye yet know but by name, — 

The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 

The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 

III suit with souls at home untaught to yield. 

Say with what eye, along the distant down. 

Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 

How view the column of ascending flames 

Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 

Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 

That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 

Now should they burst on thy devoted coast. 

Go, ask thy bosom, who deserves them most ? 

The law of heaven and earth is life for Ufe ; 

And she who raised in vain regrets the strife." 



NOTES. 



Note L Page 189, line 22. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day; 

Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun 
set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en 
treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

Note 2. Page 189, line 34. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in oia 
country ; the days in winter are longer, but in summej 
of less duration. 

Note 3. Page 189, Une 44. 
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. 
The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the 
Avail intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
lUssus has no stream at all. 

Note 4. Page 190, line 5. 
TTiese Cecrops placed — this Pericles adorn'd. 
This is spoken of the city in general, and not of tha 
Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olyra- 
pius, by some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by 
Hadrian : sixteen columns are standing, of the most 
beautiful marble and style of architecture. 

Note 5. Page 190, line 10. 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name. 
It is stated by a late oriental traveller, that when Ae 
wholesale spoliator visited Athens, he caused his own 
name, with that of his wife, to be inscribed on a pillai 
of one of the principal temples. This inscription was 
executed in a very conspicuous manner, and deeplv en- 
graved in the marble, at a very considerable elevation. 
Notwithstanding which precautions, some person (douDt 
less mspired by the Patron Goddess), has been at th« 
pains to get himself raised up to the requisite heic^h.. 
and has obliterated the name of the laird, but left UuS 
of tnc iaJy untouched. The traveller in ouestioo ac 



rornpanied tliis story by a remark, that it must have 
cost some labour and contrivance to get at the place, 
and could only have been effected by much zeal and 
delormination. 

Note 6. Page 190, line 21. 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame. 
His lordship's name, and that of one uho no longer 
bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon 
above ; in a part not far distant are the torn remnants 
of Uie basso-relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to 
remove them. 

Note 7. Page 190, line 27. 
Frown not on Ensrland — England owns hira not — 
Athena, no ! the plunderer was a Scot ! 

The plaster wall on the west side of the temple of 
JNlinerva PoUas bears the following inscription, cut in 
very deep characters : 

(iuod non fecerunt Goti 
Hoc fecerunt Scoti. 
Hobhouse's Travels in Greece, etc., p. 345. 

Note 8. Page 190, line 30. 
And well I know witiiin tliat bastard land. 
Irish bastards, according to Sir Callaghan O'Bral- 
taghan. 

Note 9. Page 190, line 77. 

With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 

And own himself an infant of fourscore. 

Mr. West, on seeing "the Elgin collection" (I suppose 

■Be shall hear of the Abershaw's and Jack Shepherd's 

collection next), declared himself a mere Tyro in Art. 

Note 10. Page 190, line 80. 
W^hile brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
And marvel at his lordship's stane-shop there. 

Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when exhibited at Elgin- 
house ; he asked if it was not " a stone-shop : " he was 
right, — it is a shop. 

Note 11. Page 190, line 94. 
And, last of all, amidst the gaping cre\y. 
Some cakn spectator, as he takes his view. 

"Alas! all the monuments of Roman magnificence, 
all the remains of Grecian taste, so dear to the artist, 
the historian, the antiquary, all depend on the will of 
&n arbitrary sovereign ; and that ^^■ill is influenced too 
uflen by interest or vanity, by a nephew or a sycophant. 



Is a new palace to be erected (at Rome) fo- an upsiail 
family? the Cohseum is stripped to furnish materials. 
Does a foreign minister wish to adorn the bleak walls 
of a northern castle with antiques? the temples of The- 
seus or Minerva must be dismantled, and the works of 
Phidias or Praxiteles be torn from the shattered frieze. 
That a decrepit uncle, wrapped up in the religious 
duties of his age and station, should listen to the sug- 
gestions of an interested nephew, is natural ; and that 
an oriental despot should undervalue the masterpieces 
of Grecian art, is to be expected ; though in both cases 
the consequences of such weakness are much to be la- 
mented — but that the minister of a nation, famed for 
its knowledge of the language, and its veneration for 
the monuments of ancient Greece, should have been 
the prompter and the instrument of these destructions, 
is almost incredible. Such rapacity is a ciime against 
all ages and all generations : it deprives the past of the 
trophies of their genius ana tne titie-deeos of their 
fame ; the present, of the strongest inducements to 
exertion, the noblest erdiibitions that curiositj' can 
contemplate ; the tuture, of the masterpieces of ai t, the 
models of imitation. To guard against the repetition 
of such depredations is the wish of every man of ge- 
nius, the dutv of every man in power, and the common 
interest of every civilized nation." — Eustace's Classical 
Tour throu^-h Italy, p. 269. 

"This attempt to transplant the temple of Vesta from 
Italy to England, may, perhaps, do honour to the late 
Lord Bristol's patriotism or to his magnificence ; but it 
cannot be considered as an indication of either taste or 
judgment." — Ibid. p. 419. 

Note 12. Page 191, line 19. 
• Blest paper credit ' who shall dare to sing 7 
Blest paper erfdit, last and best supply. 
That lends corruption lighter wings lo fly. — Pope 

Note 13. Page 191, line 25. 
Then raves for * * * 
The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 

Note 14. Page 191, hne 38. 
Gone is that gold, ibe marvel of mankind, 
And pirates barter all that's left behind. 

See the preceding note. 



S^lie Sicfle est Cotiittli. 



January 22, 1816. 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 

THIS POEIVI IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS FRIEND. 



ADVERTISE3IENT, 



'The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
Piime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
tieart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli 
oi Romania, the most considerable place m all that 
country, ' thought it best in the firs'c place to attack 



1 Napoli di Romania is no. now the most considerable place in 
'.he Morea, butTripolitza, where the Pacha resides, and main- 
tains his government. NapdiisnearArgOs. I visited all three in 



Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The 
garrison beuig weakened, and the governor seeing it 



1810-11- and in the course ofjoumeyimg through the country 
from m/ first arrival in 1800, 1 crossed the Isthmus eight times 
in my way from Attica to the Morea, over the mount:iins. 
or in the other direction, when passing from the Gulf of Athens 
to that of Lepanto. Roth the routes are picturesque and beau 
tiful, though very different : that by sea has more sameness, 
but the voyage being always in sight of land, and often very 
near it, presents many attractive views * f the islanus Salaiuis, 
^zma., Puro, etc., and the coast of th< iontircot. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



19. 



was impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, 
thought it fit to beat a parley : but while they were 
treatmg about the articles, one of the magazines in the 
Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred barrels 
of powder, blew up by accident, Avhcreby six or seven 
hundred men were killed : which so enraged the infi- 
dels, that they would not grant any capitulation, but 
stormed the place wath so much fury, tliat they took it, 
and put most of the garrison, with Signer Minotti, the 
governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo, 
proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war." 
Histxjry of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 



SIEGE OF CORINTH 



Mast a vanish'd year and age, 

And tempest's breath, and batde's rage. 

Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 

A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 

The kevstone of a land which still, 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side. 

As if their waters chated to meet. 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timolcon's brother bled, 

Or baffled Persia's despot fled. 

Arise from out the earth ^Yhich drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sangmne ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 

Than yon tower-capt Acropolis 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 

On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain. 
From shore to shore of either main. 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach, 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,' 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
T" waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breatli 
W^ings the far iiissing globe of death ; 
TJ 2 20 



Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which cmmbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies. 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 

III. 

But near and nearest to tlie wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall. 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed. 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallpng ranks the trench assail. 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Ahghting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boas>. 
To guide the follower o'er the field, 
To point the tube, the lance to wield. 
Or whirl aromid the bickering blade, — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 

From Venice — once a race of worth 

His gende sires — he drew his birth ; 

But late an exile from her shore. 

Against his countrj'inen he bore 

The arms they taught to bear ; and now 

The turban girt his shaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth pass'u 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 

And here, before her walls, wiih those 

To Greece and Venice equal foes. 

He stood a foe, with ail the zeal 

Which young and fierj- converts feel, 

Whhin whose heated bosom throngs 

The memory' of a thousand wrongs. 

To him had Venice ceased to be 

Her ancient civic boast — "the Free j" 

And in the palace of St. Mark 

Unnamed accusers in the dark 

Within the " Lion's mouth " had placed 

A charge against him uneffaced : 

He fled in time, and saved his life 

To waste his future years in strife, 

That taught his land how great her loss 

In him who tnumph'd o'er the Cross, 

'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescer* higli 

And batded to avenge or die. 

V. 

Coumourgi^ — he whose closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain. 
The last and mightiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die. 
But cursi the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can his g'ory cease. 
That latest conqueror of Greece 



, . _ _ . — _ 


!94 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Till Christian hands to Greece restore 


Her voice less lively in the song ; 


Tlie frf.edom Venice gave of yore ? 


Her step, though light, less fleet among 


A hundred years have roll'd away 


The pairs, on whom the morning's glance 


Since he refix'd tlic Moslem's sway ; 


Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 


And now he led the Mussulman, 




And gave the guidance of the van 


IX. 


To Alp, who well repaid the trust 


Sent by the state to guard the land 


By cities levell'd with the dust ; 


(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 


And pro>'ed, by many a deed of <ieath, 


While Sobieski tamed his pride 


How firm his heart in novel faith. 


By Buda's wall and Danube's side. 




The chiefs of Venice wrung away 


VI. 


From Patra to Euboea's bay), 


The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 


Minotti held in Corinth's towers 


Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 


The Doge's delegated powers, 


With unabating fury sent 


While yet the pitying eye of peace 


From battery to battlement ; 


Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 


And thunder-like the pealing din 


And, ere that faithless truce was broke 


Rose from each heated culverin ; 


W^hich freed her from the unchristian yoke, 


And here and there some crackling dome 


With him his gentle daughter came : 


Was fired before the exploding bomb : 


Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 


And as the fabric sank beneath 


Forsook her lord and land, to prove 


The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 


What woes await on lawless love. 


In red and wreathing columns flash'd 


Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 


The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 


Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 


Or into countless meteors driven, 


X. 


Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 


Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
Impervious to the hidden sun, 


The wall is rent, the ruins ya\vn, 


And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn. 


With volumed smoke that slowly grew 


O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 


To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 


The foremost of the fierce assault. 




The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 


VII. 


Of Tartar and of IMussulman, 


IJut not for vengeance, long delay'd, 


The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn. 


Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach: 


And win their way with falchions' force. 
Or pave the path v.-ith many a corse. 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 


Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win, without consent 


Their stepping-stone — the last wno dies ' 


Of that inexorable sire. 


XI. 


Whose neart refused him in its ire, 


'T is midnight : on the mountain's brown 


When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 


The cold round moon shines deeply down ; 


Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 


Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 


In happier mood and earlier time. 


Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 


W^hile unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 


Bespangled with those isles of light. 


Gayest in gondola or hall. 


So wildly, spiritually bright ; 


He glitter'd through the Carnival; 


Who ever gazed upon them shining. 


And tuned the softest serenade 


And turn'd to earth without repining, 


That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 


Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 


At midnight to Italian maid. 


And mix with their eternal ray? 




The waves on either shore lay there 


VIII. 


Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 


And many deem'd her heart was won ; 


And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 


For, sought by numbers, given to none. 


But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 


Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 


The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 


Still by fhe church's bonds unchain'd ; 


The banners droop'd along their staves. 


And when the Adriatic bore 


And, as they fell around them furling, 


Lanciotto to the Paynim shore. 


Above them shone the crescent curling ; 


Hur wonted smiles were seen to fail, 


And that deep silence was unbroke. 


And pensive wax'd the maid, and pale ; 


Save where the watch his signal spoke, 


More constant at confessional, 


Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill. 


More rare at masque and festival ; 


And echo answer'd from the hill. 


Or seen at such, with downcast eyes. 


And the wide hum of that wild host 


Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize* 


Rustled like leaves from coast to coast. 


Wilh listless look she seems to gaze; 


As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 


WiUi humbler care her form arrays • 


In midnight call to wonted prayer : 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



19: 



It rose, that chauntcd mournful strain, 

Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 

'Twas musical, but sadiy sweet, 

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet. 

And take a long unmeasured tone, 

To mortal ministrelsy unknown. 

It seem'd to those within the wall 

A cry prophetic of their fall : 

It struck even the besieger's ear 

With something ominous and drear, 

An undefined and sudden thrill. 

Which makes the heart a moment still, 

Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 

Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 

Such as a sudden passmg-bell 

Wakes, though but, for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 
The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
The sound was hush'd the prayer was o'er ; 
The watch was set, the night-round made, 
All mandates issued and obey'd ; 
'T is but another anxious night. 
His pains the morrow may requite 
With all revenge and love can pay. 
In guerdon for their long delay. 
Few hours remain, and he hath need 
Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 
He stood alone among the host ; 
Not his the loud fanatic boast 
To plant the Crescent o'er the Cross, 
Or risk a life with little loss, 
Secure in paradise to be 
By Houris loved immortally : 
Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 
The stern exaltedness of zeal, 
Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 
When battling on the parent soil. 
He stood alone — a renegade 
Against the country he betray'd ; 
He stood alone amidst his band. 
Without a trusted heart or hand ; 
They foUow'd him, for he was brave, 
And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
They crouch'd to him, for he had skiU 
To warp and wield the vulgar will : 
But still his Christian origin 
With them was little less than sin. 
They envied even the faithless fame 
He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 
Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
They did not know how pride can stoop, 
When baffled feelings withering droop ; 
They did not know how hate can burn 
In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 
Nor all the false and fatal zeal 
The convert of revenge can feel. 
He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 
By ever daring to be first : 
So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 
The jackal points, he fells the prey, 
Tiien on the vulgar yelling press. 



XIII. 

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
The quick successive throbs convulse j 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose ; 
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd. 
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breasi. 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate. 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed. 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walk'd him forth along the sand. 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the straii; 
What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be ? 
Since more their peril, worse their toil. 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last. 
In sickly vigil wander'd on. 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 

He felt his soul become more Hght 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf: and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow. 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away. 
Less form'd to wear before the ray, 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest. 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest. 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud. 
In texture like a hovering shroud. 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh, still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields and ruin'd altars. 
And fain would wake, in souls too broker., 
By pointing to each glorious token. 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet reniember'd rays 
Which shone upon the Persian flying. 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crime? • 



[96 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And through this night, as on lie wander'd. 

And o'er the past and jjreseiit ponder'd, 

And thought upon the glorious dead 

Who there m better cause liad bled, 

He felt how faint an 1 feebly dun 

The fame that could accrue to him, 

Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 

A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 

And led them to the lawless siege, 

Whose best success were sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy nuuiber'd. 

The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd , 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 

Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 

They fell devoted, but undying ; 

The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 

The waters murmur'd of their name ; 

The -woods were peopled with their fame; 

The silent pillar, lone and gray, 

Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay; 

Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 

Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 

The meanest rill, the mightiest river 

RoU'd mingling with their fame for ever. 

Despite of every yoke she bears, 

That land is glory's still and theirs ! 

'Tis still a watch- word to the earth: 

When man would do a deed of worth 

He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 

So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head: 

He looks to her, and rushes on 

Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 
Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
And woo'd the freshness night diffused. 
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,' 
Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood ; 
And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
Heedless if she come or go : 
Calm or high, in main or bay, 
On their course she hath no sway. 
The rock unworn its base doth bare, 
And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 
And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
On the hne that it left long ages ago : 
A smooth short space of yellow sand 
Between it and the greener land. 

*Ie wander'd on, along the beach. 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christian's hold? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 

I know r,ot, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 

There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball. 

Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 

Tha.t flank'd the sea-vvard gate of the town ; 

Though he heard tne sound, and could almost tell 

The sul.en words of the sentinel 

As '.lis measured step on the stone below 

Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 

Hold o'er the dead 'heir carvinal. 



Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb; 

They were too tiusy to bark at him ! 

From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh. 

As ye peel the fig when the fruit is fresh ; 

And their while tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,-' 

As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew duU 

As they lazily mumbled llic bones of the dead, 

When they scarce could rise from the spot where thej fed^ 

So well had they broken a lingering fast 

With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 

Th9 foremost of these were the best of his band : 

Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 

And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,* 

AH the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

But close by the shore on the edge of the gulf. 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away. 

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 

Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XVII. 
Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight: 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
Scorcli'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain. 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lour ; 
For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
.But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead. 
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
All regarding man as their prey, 
All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVIII. 
There is a temple in ruin stands, 
Fashion'd by long-forgotten hands ; 
Two or three columns, and many a stone. 
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
Out upon time ! it will leave no more 
Of the things to come than the things before ! 
Out upon time ! who for ever will leave 
But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be: 
W'hat we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 

XIX. 
He sate him douTi at a pillar's base, 
And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 
Like one in dreary musing mood. 
Declining was his attitude ; 
His head was drooping on his breast, 
Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest ; 
And o'er his brow, so downward bsnt, 
Oft his beating fingers went, 
Hurriedly, as you may see 
Your own run over the ivory key- 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



ID7 



JLre the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavity, 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,^ 

Sent that soft and tender moan ? 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade; 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leaves on Cithseron's hill. 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 

What did that sudden sound bespeak? 

He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 

There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 

XX. 

He started up witn more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament?" 

His trembling hands refused to sigr. 

The cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride ! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 

But mellow'd wdth a tender streak : 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that cold wave it stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was. chill. 

Around her form a thin robe twinin^, 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her hair, 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high ; 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXL 

' I come from my rest to him I love best. 

That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'T is said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the power on high, that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 

Ha*h extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 

come — and if I come in vain. 
Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
Thou hast done a fearful deed 
In falling away from thy father's creed : 



But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 
Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
And to-morrow unites us no more to part," 

"And where should our bridal couch be spread? 

In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name • 

None save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot. 

Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgoL 

There thou yet shalt be my bride. 

When once again I 've queli'd the pride 

Of Venice ; and her hated race 

Have felt the arm they would debase, — 

Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 

Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 
Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
And shot a chillness to his heart. 
Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
Though slight was that grasp so mortal eoid, 
He could not loose him from its hold ; 
But never did clasp of one so dear 
Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 
As those thin fingers, long and white. 
Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 
The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 
So deeply changed from what he knew : 
Fair but faint — without the ray 
Of mind, that made each feature play 
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
And her motionless hps lay still as death, 
And her words came forth without her breath, 
And tb ere rose nut a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 
And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 
Lifeless, but life-hke, and awful to sight ; 
As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down 
From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
"If not for love of me be given 
Thus much, then, for the love of Heaven, — 
Again I say — that turban tear 
From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see, 
Not earth — that 's past — but heaven or me. 
If this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavy doom 't is thine to meet, 
That doom shall half absolve thj' sm. 
And Mercy's gate may receive thee within ; 
But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake • 



I9<^ 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shut from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon — ' 
'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 
If, by the time its vapoury sail 
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; 
Dark wiil thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside, 

By deep interminable pride, 

This first false passion of his breast 

RoU'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons devoted to the grave ! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him — let it burst I 

He look'd upon it earnestly, 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 

Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 

And thus he spake — "Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 't is too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

What "Venice made me, I must be. 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe : oh, fly with me ! — " 

He turn'd, but she is gone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 

He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there. 

XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one. 

Lightly and brightly breaks away 

The morning from her mantle gray. 

And the moon will look on a sultry day. 

Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
At/d the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum. 
And the clash, and the shout, "they come, they come!" 
The horsetails ^ are pluck'd from the ground, and the 

sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but v/ait for the 

word. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
btrike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape. 
Aged or 30ung, in the Christian shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
Bioodstam the breach through which they pass, 
•riie steeds are all bridled and snort to the rein ; 
Curved i? each neck, and flowing each mane ; 



White is the foam of their champ on the bit ; 

The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 

The cannon are pointed and ready to roar. 

And crush the wall tliey have crumbled before : 

Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 

Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 

So is the blade of his scimitar j 

The khan and the pachas are all at theiF-post ; 

The vizier himself at the head of the host. 

When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her aUars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

"There the breach hes for passage, the ladder to scale, 

And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail I 

He who first downs with the red cross may crave 

His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have !" 

Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless \-izier ; 

The reph' was the brandish of sabre and spear. 

And the shout of fierce thousands in joj-ous ire : — 

Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

XXIII. 

As the wolves, that headlong go 

On the stately buff'alo. 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar. 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He tramples on earth, and tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die; 

Thus against the wall they went, 

Thus the first were backward bent ; 

Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 

Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 

Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more : 

Even as they fell, in files they lay. 

Like the mower's grass, at the close of day. 

When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 

Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash. 

From the clifls invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 

Till white and thundering down they go. 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below ; 

Thus at length outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

Bj'^ the long and oft-renew'd 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness the\' stood, and in masses they ft'V. 

Heap'd by the host of the infidel. 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot: 

Nothins there, save death, -was mute ; 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory. 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes. 

If with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice, 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. TJii 


Which pierces the deep hills through and through 


Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 


With an echo dread and new : 


Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 


You might have heard it, on that day, 


Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 


O'er Salamis and Megara ; 


Thus in the fight he is ever known : 


(We have heard the hearers say,) 


Others a gaudier garb may show. 


Even unto Piraeus bay. 


To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 




Many a hand 's on a richer hilt. 


XXV. 


But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 


From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 


Many a loftier turban may wear, — 


Sabres and swords with blood were gilt. 


Alp is but known by the white arrn bare ; 


But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 


Look through the thick of the fight, 't is ther« ' 


And all but the after-carnage done. 


There is not a standard on that shore 


Shriller shrieks now mingling come 


So well advanced the ranks before ; 


From within the plunder'd dome ; 


There is not a banner in Moslem war 


Hark to the haste of flying feet, 


Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 


That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 


It glances hke a falling star ! 


But here and there, where 'vantage ground 


Where'er that mighty arm is seen. 


Against the foe may still be found, 


The bravest be, or late have been ! 


Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 


There the craven cries for quarter 


Make a pause, and turn again — 


Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 


With banded backs against the wall. 


Or the hero, silent lying. 


Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 


Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 




Mustering his last feeble blow 


There stood an old man — his hairs were white. 


'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe. 


But his veteran arm was full of might : 


Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 


So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 


Grappling on the gory ground. 


The dead before him on that day 




In a semicircle lay ; 


XXVII. 


Still he combated unwounded. 


Still the old man stood erect. 


Though retreating, unsurrounded. 


And Alp's career a moment check'd. 


Many a scar of former fight 


" Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take, 


Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 


For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 


But of every wound his body bore, 




Each and all had been ta'en before ; 


" Never, renegado, never ! 


Though aged, he was so iron of limb. 


Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 


Few of our youth could cope with him ; 




And the foes whom he singly kept at bay 


" Francesca ! — Oh my promised bride ! 


Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. 


Must she too perish by thy pride ?" 


From right to left his sabre swept: 




Many an Othman mother wept 


" She is safe."— « Where ? where ?"—" In heiu'cr. 


Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 


From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 


His weapon first in Moslem gore. 


Far from thee, and unde filed." 


Ere his years could count a score. 


Grimly then Minotti smiled. 


Of all he might have been the sire, 


As he saw Alp staggering bow 


Who fell that day beneath his ire : 


Before his words, as with a blow. 


For, sonless left long years ago. 


" Oh God ! when died she ?" — " Yesternigh* • 


His wrath made many a childless foe ; 


Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 


And since the day, when in the strait' 


None of my pure race shall be 


His only boy had met his fate. 


Slaves to Mahomet and thee— 


His parent's iron hand did doom 


Come on !"— That challenge is in vain- 


More than a human hecatomb. 


Alp 's already with the slain ! 


If shades by carnage be appeased, 


While Minotti's words were wreakin;^ 


Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 


More revenge in bitter speaking 


Than his, Minotti's son, who died 


Than his falchion's point had found, 


Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 


Had the time allow'd to wound. 


Buried he lay, where thousands before 


From within the neighbouring porch 


For thousands of years were inhumed ol th». sho.-e : 


Of a long-defended church. 


What of them is left to tell 


Where the last and desperate few 


Where they lie, and how they feli ? 


Would the failing fight renew. 


Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their g'-ives^ 


The sharp shot dash'd AJp to the ground , 


But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 


Ere an eye could view the wound 




That crash'd through the br?.in ot ihe infvli- 


XXVI. 


Round he spun, and down he fell ; 


Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 


A flash like fire within his eyes 


Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand: j 


Blazeci, as he bent no more to ris«. 



900 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And then eternal darkness sunk 
Through all the jjalpitating trunk : 
Nought of life left, save a quivering 
Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 
They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 
And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 
And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 
From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
But in his pulse there was no throb, 
Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 
Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breathi 
Heralded his way to death ; 
Ere his very thought could pray, 
Unanel'd he pass'd away. 
Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
To the last a renegade. 

xxvin. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes ; 

These in joy, m fury those : 

Then again m conflict mixing, 

Clashing swords and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blow and thrust. 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot. 

Still JMinotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land. 

Left beneath his high command ; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable. 

Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half- avenged the city's fall. 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 

Thither bending sternly back, 

They leave before a bloody track ; 

And, with their faces to the foe, 

Dealing wounds with every blow, 

The chief, and his retreating train, 

Toin to those within the fane : 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time! the turban'd host, 

With added ranks, and raging boast, 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Their riumbers balk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die ; but ere their eyes could close 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still : 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renew'd attacks : 

And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight. 

And still all deadly aim'd and hot. 

From erery crevice comes the shot ; 

bVom every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of tne suiptiurous shower: 



But the portal wavering grows and wcttK 
The iron yields, the hinges croak — 
It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar-stone : 

Madonna's face upon him shone, 

Painted in heavenly hues above, 

With eyes of light and looks of love ; 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on things divine, 

When pictured there, we kneeling vcc 

Her and the boy-gcd on her knee. 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it there. 

Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 

Minotti lifted his aged eye. 

And made the sign of a cross w-ith a sigh. 

Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 

And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 

Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor, 

But now illegible with gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins diffuse. 

Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd and strov i 

With broken swords and helms o'erthrown; 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row. 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But war had enter'd their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the flcshless dead ; 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 

The Christian's chiefest magazine ; 

To these a late-form'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource, 

Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXII. 

The foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain ; 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake, 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead. 

And lop the already lifeless head. 

And fell the statues from their niche. 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had blest. 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold ; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



20 



That morn it held the holy wine, 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of day. 

To shrive dieir souls ere they join'd in the fray. 

Still a few drops within it lay ; 

And round the sacred table glow 

Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 

From the purest metal cast ; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd. 

When old INIinotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

'T is fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane. 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd to\\-n — the walls thrown down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shape'ess things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven. 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too-long afilicted shore : 
Up to the sky Uke rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
IVIany a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a spam, 
When he fell to earth again. 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 

Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
W^ith a thousand circling wrinkles ; 

Some fell on the shore, but, far aw-ay, 

Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 

Christian or Moslem, which be they? 

Let their mothers see and say ! 

When in cradled rest they lay. 

And each nursing-mother smiled 

On the sweet sleep of her child, 

Little deem'd she such a day 

Would rend those tender limbs away. 

Not the matrons that them bore 

Could discern their offspring mere ; 

That one moment left no trace 

More of human form or face, 

Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 

And down came blazing rafters, strewn 

Around, and niany a falling stone, 

Deeply dinted in the clay. 

All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 

AH the living things that heard 

That deadly earth-shock d\sappear'd ; 

The wild birds flew, the wild dogs fled, 

And howling left the unburied dead ; 

The camels from their keepers broke ; 

The distant steer forsook the yoke — 

The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain. 

And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
31 



The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,'^ 
Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
With a mix'd and mournful sound. 
Like crying babe and beaten hound • 
With sudden wing and ruffled breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest. 
And mounted nearer to the sun. 
The clouds beneath hLm seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak. 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 193, line 3S. 
The Turcoman hath left his herd. 
The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patri 
archal : they dwell in tents. 

Note 2. Page 193, line 96. 
Coumourgi — he whose closing scene. 
Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and 
Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelopon- 
nesus from the Venetians, in one campaign, was mor- 
tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at thft 
battle of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowitz), ia 
Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died 
of his wounds next day. His last order was the de 
capitation of General Breuner, and some other Ger 
man prisoners ; and his last words, " Oh that I could 
thus serve all the Christian dogs !" a speech and act 
not unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of 
great ambition and unbounded presumption : on being 
told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, " was 
a great general," he said, " I shall become a greater, 
and at his expense." 

Note 3. Page 196, line 31. 
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 
The reader need hardly be reminded that there are 
no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 
Note 4. Page 196, line 65. 
And their while tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull. 
This spectacle I have seen, such as described, be- 
neath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the 
Httle cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rOck, a 
narrow terrace of which projects between the wall and 
the water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Hcl>- 
house's Travels. The bodies were pi obably those oi 
some refractoiy Janizaries. 

Note 5. Page 196, line It. 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hai» 
This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition thai 
Mahomet will draw them into paradise by it 
Note 6. Page 197, line 5 
I must here acknowledge a close, though iniiuten 
tional, resemblance in th. -e twelve lines to a passage ii' 
an unpublished poem of IS . Coleridge, called " Cbri*. 
label." It was not till aftx - these ij«e.s were wnuen 



202 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ihac I heard that wild and singularly original and beau- 
tiful poem recited; and the MS. of that production I 
never saw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. 
Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have 
not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubt- 
edly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been 
composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a 
hope, that he will not longer delay the publication of a 
production, of which I can only add my mite of appro- 
Dation to the applause of far more competent judges. 
Note 7. Page 198, line 3. 
There is a light cloud by the moon. 
I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 
598 to 603, have been admired by those whose appro- 
bation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not ori- 
ginal — at least not mine ; it may be found much better 
expressed m pages 182-3-4, of the English version of 
"Vathek" (I forget the precise page of the French), a 



work to which I have before referred ; and never rccui 
to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. 

Note 8. Page 191!, line 48. 
The horse-tails are pluck'd from the ground, ard the sword 
The horse-tail, fixed upon a lance, a pacha r standard 

Note 9. Page 199, line 45. 
And since the day, when in the strait. 
In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, 
between the Venetians and the Turks. 

Note 10. Page 201, line 68. 
The jackal's troop in gather'd cry. 
I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant 
the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
these animals ; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have 
heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and fol- 
low armies. 



TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 

THE POLLO-WING POE3VE IS INSCRIBED, 

BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS, AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
January 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Die following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House of 
Brunswick." — I am aware that in modern times the 
dehcacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem 
such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The 
Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old 
Enghsh writers, were of a different opinion : as Al- 
fieri and Schiller have also been, more recentty, upon 
the continent. The following extract will explain the 
facts on which the story is founded. The name of 
Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 
"Under the reign of Nicholas KI, Ferrara was pol- 
luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of 
Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Pari- 
sina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant 
youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sen- 
tence of a father and husband, who published his shame, 
and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if 
they v.ere guiity ; if they were innocent, he was still 
more unfortunate ; nor is there any possible situation in 
\*hich I ran sincerely approve the lasl ao» of the justice 
of a parent." — Gibbo?i's Miscellaneous JVorks, vol. 3, 
\* 470, new edition. 



PARISINA. 



IT IS the hour when from the boughs 
TJj* nightingale's high note is neard , 



It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 
And gentle winds, and waters near, 
Make music to the lonely ear. 
Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
And in the sky the stars are met, 
And on the wave is deeper blue. 
And on the leaf a browner hue. 
And in the heaven that clear obscure 
So softly dark, and darkly pure. 
Which follows the decline of da}', 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.' 

n. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hail. 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night j 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'T is not for the sake of its fuU-blowm flower — 

She listens — but not for the nightingale — 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick. 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick 

There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves. 

And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 

A moment more — and they shall meet — 

'T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 

III. 

And what unto them is the world beside 
With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 



PARISINA. 203 




And heedless as the dead are they 


And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 




Of aught around, above, beneath ; 


Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 




As if all else had pass'd away, 


Which rolls the plank upon the shore. 




They only for each other breathe ; 


And dashes on the pointed rock 




Their very sighs are full of joy 


The wretch who sinks to rise no more ; — 




So deep, that, did it not decay, 


So came upon his soul the shock. 




That happy madness would destroy 


And whose that name ? 't is Hugo's, — his 




The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 


In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 




Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 


'T is Hugo's— he, the child of one 




In that tumultuous tender dream? 


He loved — his own all-evil son — 




Who that have felt that passion's power, 


The offspring of his wayward youth. 




Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour, 


When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 




Or Uiought how brief such moments last ? 


The maid whose folly could confide 




But yet — they are already past! 


In him who made her not his bride. 




Alas ! we must awake before 


VII. 




We know such visions come no more. 






He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath. 




IV. 


But sheathed it ere the point was bare— 




With many a lingering look they leave 


Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 




The spot of guilty gladness past ; 


He could not slay a thing so fair — 




And though they hope, and vow, they grieve. 


At least, not smiling — sleeping there — 




As if that parting were the last. 


Nay, more : — he did not wake her then, 




The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 


But gazed upon her with a glance 




The lip that there would chng for ever, 


Which, had she roused her from her trance, 




While gleams on Parisina's face 


Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 




The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 


And o'er his brow the burning lamp 




As if each calmly conscious star 


Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 




Beheld her frailty from afar— 


She spake no more — but still she slumber' d— 




The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 


While, in his thought, her days are nuniber'd. 




Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 






But it must come, and they must part 


VIII. 




In fearful heaviness of heart, 


And with the morn he sought, and found. 




With all the deep and shuddering chill 


In many a tale from those around, 




Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 


The proof of all he fear'd to know, 




^- 


Their present guilt, his future woe ; 




The long-conniving damsels seek 




And Hugo is> gone to his lonely bed. 


To save themselves, and would transfer 




To covet there another's bride ; 


The guilt — the shame — the doom to her • 




But she must lay her conscious head 


Concealment is no more — they speak 




A husband's trusting heart beside. 


All circumstance which may compel 




But fever'd in her sleep she seems. 


Full credence to the tale they tell : 




And red her cheek with troubled dreams. 


And Azo's tortured heart and ear 




And mutters she in her unrest 


Have nothing more to feel or hear. 




A name she dare not breathe by day, 






And clasps her lord unto the breast 


IX. 




Which pants for one away : 


He was not one who brook'd delay : 




And he to that embrace awakes, 


Within the chamber of his state. 




And, happy in the thought, mistakes 


The chief of Este's ancient sway 




That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 


Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 




For such as he was wont to bless ; 


His nobles and his guards are there, — 




And could in very fondness weep 


Before him is the sinful pair ; 




O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 


Both young — and one how passing fair ! 




VI. 


With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 




Oh, Christ! that thus a son shouid stand 




He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart. 


Before a father's face ! 




And Usten'd-to each broken word: 


Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 




He hears — why doth Prince Azo start, 


And hear the sentence of his ire, 




As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 


The tale of his disgrace ! 




And well he may — a deeper doom 


And yet he seems not overcome, 




Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 


Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 




When he shall wake to sleep no more, 






And stand the eternal throne before. 


X. 




And well he may — his earthly peace 


And still, and pale, and silently 




Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 


Did Parisina wait her doom ; 




That sleeping whisper of a name 


How changed since last her speaking e e 




Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shanre. 


Glanced gladness round the glittering hk m. 











904 BYRON'S WORKS. 


Where high-born men were proud to wait- 


But here, upon the earth beneath. 


Where Beaut}' watch'd to imitate 


There is no spot where thou and I 


Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 


Together, for an hour, could breathe : 


And gather from her air and gait 


Farewell ! I will not see thee die.— 


The graces of its queen : 


But thou, frail thing ! shall view his head- 


Then,— had her eye no sorrow wept, 


Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 


A thousand v.arriors forth had leapt, 


Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 


A thousand swords had sheathless shone. 


Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 


And made her quarrel all their own. 


Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive. 


Now, — ■ivhat is she ? and what are they ? 


And joy thee in the life I give." 


Can she command, or these obey? 


XIII. 


All silent and unheeding now, 


With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 


And here stern Azo hid his face — 


And folded arms, and freezing au-. 


For on his brow the swelling vein 


And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 


Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 


Her knights and dames, her court— is there : 


The hot blood cbb'd and flow'd again ; 


And he, the chosen one, whose lance 


And therefore bow'd he for a space, 


Had yet been couch'd before her glance. 


And pass'd his shakmg hand along 


Who — were his arm a moment free — 


His eye, to veil it from the thruug : 


Had died or gain'd her liberty 5 
The minion of his father's bride, — 


While Hugo raised his chained hands, 


And for a brief delay demands 


He, too, IS fetter'd by her side ; 


His father's ear : the silent sire 


Nor sees her swoln and full eye s%vim 


Forbids not what his words require. 


Less for her own despair than him : 


<'It is not that I dread the deatli — 


Those lids — o'er which the violet vain 


For thou hast seen me by thy side 


Wandering, leaves a tender stain. 


Already through the battle ride. 


Shining through the smoothest white 


And that not once a useless brand 


That e'er did softest kiss invite — 


Thy slaves have wrested fi-om my hand. 


Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 


Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 


To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 


Than e'er can stain the a.\e of mine : 


j Which glance so heavily, and fill. 


Thou gavest, and may'st resume my breath, 


As tear on tear grows gathering still. 


A gift for which I thank thee not ; 


XI. 


Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 


And he for her had also wept. 


Her slighted love and ruin'd name. 


But for the eyes that on him gazed: 


Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 


His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 


But she is in the grave, where he. 


1 Stern and erect his brow was raised. 


Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 


1 Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 


Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 


He would not shrink before the crowd ; 


Shall witness for thee from the dead 


But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 


How trusty and how tender were 


Thy youthful love — paternal care. 


His guilt — his love — his present state — 


'T is true, that I have done thee \\Tong — 


His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 


But wrong for wrong — this deem'd thy bride, 


His earthly, his eternal fate— 

And hers,— oh, hers !— he dared not throw 


The other victim of thy pride, 


Thou know'st for me was destined long. 


One look upon that deathlike brow ! 


Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms— 


Else had his rising heart betray'd 


And with thy very crime — my birth. 


■ 1 Remorse for all the wreck it made. 


Thou taunted'st me — as httle worth ; 




A match ignoble for her arms, 


XII. 


Because, forsooth, I could not claim 


And Azo spake :— " But yesterday 


The lawful heirship of thy name, 


I gloried in a wife and son ; 


Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 


rhat dream this moriving pass'd away ; 


Yet, were a few short summers mine. 


Ere day declines, I shall have none. 


My name should more than Este's shine 


My iitc must linger on alone ; 


With honours all my own. 


Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 


I had a sword— and have a breas. 


Who would not do as I have done : 


That should have won as haught ^ a crest 


Thfise ties are broken — not by me ; 


As ever waved along the line 


Let that too pass ; — the doom 's prepared ! 


Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 


H ign the Driest awaC s on .nee. 


Not always knightly spurs are worn 


And then — thy crime's reward ! 


The brightest by the better born ; 


Away ! address thy prayers to Heava., 


And mine have lanced my courser's flank 


Before its evening stars are met — 


Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 


l^earn if ihou there canst be forgiven ; 


When charging to the cheering cry 


hs mercy may absolve the* yeU 

r ■ — 


Of «Este and of Victory I' 

^ — 1 





PARISIXA. 50.-) 


I will not plead the cause of crime, 


And those who saw, it did surprise. 


Nor sue thee, to redeem from time 


Such drops could fall from human eyes. 


A few brief hours or days, that must 


To speak she thought — the imperfect note 


At length roll o'er my reckless dust ;— 


Was chok'd within her swelling throat, 


Such maddening moments as my past. 


Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 


They could not, and they did not, last^ 


Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 


• Albeit my birth and name be base, 


It ceased — agaui she thought to speak, 


And thy nobihty of race 


Then burst lier voice in one long shriek, 


Disdain'd to deck a thins like me — 


And to the earth she feU like stone. 


Yet in my lineaments they trace 


Or statue from its base o'erthrown. 


Some features of my father's face, 


More like a thing that ne'er had life,— 


And in my spirit — ail of thee. 


A monument of Azo's wife, — 


From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 


Than her, that li%-ing guilty thing, 


From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ?— 


Whose every passion was a sting, 


From thee in all tlieir vigour came 


Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 


My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 


That guilt's detection and despair. 


Thou didst not give me life alone, 


But yet she hved — and all too soon 


But all that made me more thine own. 


Recover'd from that deathlike swoon- 


See what thy guilty love hath done ! 


But scarce to reason — every sense 


Repaid thee with too hke a son ! 


Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 


I am no bastard in my soul, 


And each frail fibre of her brain 


For that, like thine, abhorr'd control : 


(As bow-strings, when relax'd b\' rain, 


And for my breath, that hasty boon 


The erring arrow launch aside) 


Thou gavest and wilt resume so soon, 


Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 


I valued it no more than thou. 


The past a blank, the future black. 


When rose thy casque above thy brow, 


With ghmpses of a dreary track, 


And we, all side by side, have stnven, 


Like lightning on the desert path. 


And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 


When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 


The past is nothing — and at last 


She fear'd— she felt that something ill 


The future can but be the past ; 


Lay on her soul, so deep and chill- 


Yet would I that I then had Hic-J : 


That there was sin and shame she knew : 


For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 


That some one was to die — but who ? 


And made thy own my destined bride, 


She had forgotten: — did she breathe? 


I feel thou art my father still ; 


Could this be still the earth beneath ? 


And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 


The sk\- above, and men around ; 


'T is not unjust, although from thee. 


Or were they fiends who now so fro^vn'd 


Begot in sin, to die in shame, 


On one, before whose eyes each eye 


My life begun and ends the same : 


Till then had smiled in sj-mpathy? 


As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 


All was confused and undefined. 


And thou must punish both in one. 


To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind; 


My crime seems worst to human view, 


A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 


But God must judge between us two !" 


And now in laughter, now in tears, 


XIV. 


But madly still m each extreme. 


She strove with that convulsive dream : 


He ceased — and stood with folded arms. 




On which the circling fetters sounded ; 


For so it seem'd on her to break : 


And not an ear but felt as wounded, 


Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 


Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd 


XV. 


When those dull chains in meetmg clank'd : 


Till Parisina's fatal charms 


The convent-bells are ringing. 


Again attracted every eye — 


But mournfully and slow ; 


Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ? 


In the gray square turret swinging, 


She stood, I said, all pale and still. 


With a deep sound, to and fro. 


The ll\-ing cause of Hugo's ill : 


Heavily to the heart they go ! 


Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 


Hark ! the h}-mn is singing — 


tsot once had turn'd to either side — 


The song for the dead below, 


Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 


Or the UN-ing, who shortly shall be so ." 


Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 


For a departing being's soul 


But round their orbs of deepest blue 


The death-hymn pea.s. and the hollow bells knofi 


The cu-cling white dilated grew — 


Re is near his mortal goal ; 


And there with glassy gaze she stood 


Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 


As ice were in her curdled blood j 


Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 


But every now and then a tear, 


Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 


So large and slowly gather'd, slid 


With the block before and the guards ajouml - 


From tlie long dark fringe of that fair lid, 


And the heads-man wth his bare arm -eady, 


it was a thiui; to see, not hear! 
v2 


That tlie blow may be both sv,ift ind sieaily 



^OG 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Feels if tl)e axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To sec the son fall by the doom of the father. 

XVI. 
It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set, 
Which rose upon that heavy day, 
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head, 
As, his last confession pouring 
To the monk his doom deploring, 
In penitential holiness. 
He bends to hear his accents bless 
With absolution such as may 
Wipe our mortal stains away. 
That high sun on his head did glisten 
As he there did bow and listen — 
And the rings of chesnut hair 
Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe, which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd witli awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover ! 

His beads and sins are all recounted. 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stnpp'd. 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd ; 

'T is done — all closely arc they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside. 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued. 

In deep disdain were half renew'd. 

When heads-man's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind, 

As if they dared not look on death. 

"No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands are chain' d— but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike :" — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke : 

" Strike'-— and flashing fell the stroke — 

RoU'd the head— and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 

In ihe dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain; 

ilis eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

• !onvulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

• fe died, as erring man should die, 

Without display, without parade ; 



Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd. 

As not disdaining priestly aid. 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feenng ; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour ? ■ 

No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer- 
Save the few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the heads-man'* strike. 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound. 
His sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 

Each gazer's bosom held his breath: 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran. 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On him whose life and love thus ended ; 

And with a hushing sound comprest, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there. 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shocK, 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill — so passing wild? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go, 

Like a soul's in endless woe. 

Through Azo's palace-laitice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair ; 

And those who heard it, as it past, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour. 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear. 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's, who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneatli the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode. 

And won to heaven her dreary road. 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tcnjs ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the heads-man's shock. 



PARISINA. 



207 



In quickeo'd brokenness that came, 
In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 
None knew — and none can ever know : 
But whatsoe'er its end below, 
Iler life began and closed in woe!* 



XX. 

And Azo foiHid another bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who wither'd in the grave ; 

Or, if they were — on his cold e3'e 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 

Bui never tear his cheek descended, 

And never smile his brow unbended ; 

And o'er that fair broad brow were %\Tought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 

Those furrows which tlie burning share 

Of sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirth or woe : 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget, 

Which when it least appear'd to melt, 

Intently thought — intensely felt : 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream lies quick below. 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which nature halh implanted. 

Too deeply rooted thence to vanish : 

Howe'er our stifled tears we banish. 

When, struggling as they rise to start, 

We check those waters of the heart. 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 

But flow back to the fountain-head. 

And, resting in their spring more pure, 

For ever in its depth endure, 

Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 

And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 

With inward starts of feeling left, 

To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 

Without the power to fill again 

The desert gap which made his pain ; 

Without the hope to meet them where 

United souls shall gladness share. 

With all the consciousness that he 

Had only passed a just decree ; 

That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 

Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 

The tainted branches of the tree. 

If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wTath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels. 
And n^wer more a leaf reveals. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 202, line 14. 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 

The lines contained in section I. were printed as set 

to music some time since : but belonged to the poem wher«. 

they now appear, the greater part of which was composed 

prior to " Lara," and other compositions since pubUshed. 

Note 2. Page 204, line 117. 

That should have won as haught a crest. 

Haught — haughty : — 

"Away haught man, thou art insulting me." 
Shakspeare: Richard II. 
Note 3. Page 207, line 5. 
Her life began and closed in woe. 

"This turned out a calamitous year for the people ol 
Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event in the 
court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed and 
in manuscript, with the exception of the unpoUshed and 
neghgent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the 
following relation of it, from which, however, are re- 
jected many details, and especially the narrative of 
Bandelli, who wrote a century afterwards, and who 
does not accord with the cotemporary historians. 

" By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the 
Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beau- 
tiful and ingenuous youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers, 
treated him with little kindness, to the infinite regret ot 
the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality. 
One day she asked leave of her husband to undertake a 
certain journej', to which he consented, but upon con- 
dition that Ugo should bear her company ; for he hoped 
by these means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside tlie 
obstinate aversion which she had conceived against him. 
And indeed his intent vv-as accomplished but toe well, 
since, during the journey, she not only divested herself 
of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite extreme. 
After their return, the iNIarquis had no longer any occa- 
sion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one day 
that a servant of the Marquis, nam.ed Zoese, or, as some 
call him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments of 
Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chamber- 
maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, she 
told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, had 
been beating her ; and, givmg vent to her rage, she 
added, that she could easily be revenged, if she chose to 
make known the criminal familiarit}' which subsisted 
between Parisina and her step-son. The servant took 
note of the words, and related them to his master. He 
was astounded thereat, but, scarcely believing his ears, 
he assured himself of the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 
ISth of May, by looking through a hole made in the 
ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into 
a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with 
Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and 
also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, 
as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
br jught to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to pronounce 
sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the culprits. 
This sentence was death. Some there were that bestirred 
themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, am.mgst 
others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-powerful with 
Niccolo, and also his aged and much-deserving mimsitr 



208 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing 
down their cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him 
for mercy : adducing whatever reason they could sug- 
gest for sparing the offenders, besides those motives of 
lionour and decency which might persuade him to con- 
ceal from the public so scandalous a deed. But his rage 
made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he commanded 
ihat the sentence should be put in execution. 

"It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and 
exactly in those frightful dungeons which are seen at 
this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the 
foot of the Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, 
that on the night of the twenty-first of May, were be- 
headed, first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he 
that accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the 
place of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she 
was to be thrown into a pit, and asked, at every step, 
whether she was yet come to the spot? she was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She inquired what 
was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he 
was already dead: at the which, sighing grievously, she 
exclaimed, " Now, then, I wish not myself to live ;" and 
being come to the block, she rtripped herself with her 
own hands of all her ornaments, and, wrapping a cloth 
round her head, submitted to the fatal stroke which 
terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with 
Ilangoni, who, togetlier with the others, according to 
two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried 
in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else is known 
respecting the women. 

" The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful 
night, and, as he was walking backwards and forwards, 
inquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was dead 



yet? who answered him. Yes. He then gave himself 
up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming, 
I " Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried on 
to resolve thus against my own Ugo !" And then gnaw- 
ing with his teeth a cane which he had in his hand, he 
passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, calling 
frequently upon his own dear Ugo. On the following 
day, calling t-o mind that it would be necessary to make 
public his justification, seeing that the transaction could 
not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be drawc 
out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts of Italy. 

" On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Fran- 
cesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his 
reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for a 
tournament, which under the auspices of the Marquis, 
and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about to 
take place in the square of St. Mark, in order to cele- 
brate his advancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, 
commanded that as many of the married women as were 
well known to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, 
should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, Barba- 
rina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of the 
court judge, underwent this sentence, at the usual place 
of execution, that is to say, in the quarter of St. Giacomo, 
opposite the present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. It can- 
not be told how strange a[)peared this proceeding m a 
prince, who, considering his own disposition, should, as 
it seemed, have been in such cases most indulgent. 
Some, however, there were, who did not fail to commend 
him."' 

1 Frizzi— History of Ferrara. 



ffilie ^tfeoiiet ot ©iiiUciii* 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 



Eter^'Al spirit of the chainless mind! 
Brightest in dungeons. Liberty ! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign' d — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's day less gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 

By Bonnivard!' — May none those marks efface! 
Fjr they appeal from tyranny to God. 

THE 

PRISONEH OF CHILLON. 



L 

My hair is gray, but not witli years, 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night,^ 
A.S men's have grown fi a^i sudden fears : 



My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose. 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the godly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 

There are seven jjillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 
There are seven colunms, massy a-.d gray, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray. 




A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score. 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone j 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight: 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
'T was still some solace in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each, 
With some new hope, or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

IV. 

1 was the eldest of the three. 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven. 
For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
And iruly might it be distrest 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright. 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills. 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
WJiich he abhorr'd to view below. 
32 



The other was as^ pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind : 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine ; 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so f)erchance in sooth did mine ; 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those reUcs of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line wa.^ sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,' 

Which round about the wave enthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 
We heard it ripple night and day. 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were ..igh 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd. 

And I have felt it shake unshock'd. 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me- free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 't was coarse and rude. 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for the like had litde care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat ; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den : 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side 
But why delay the truth? — he died. 
I saw and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor deaa 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vam. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they uiilock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our ■'ivf 



'ilu 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 


The last— the sole— the dearest link 


His corse in dust whereon the day 


Between me and the eternal brink, 


Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 


Which bound me to my failing race. 


But when within my brain it wrought, 


Was broken in this fatal place. 


That even in death his free-born breast 


One on the earth, and one beneath, — 


In such a dungeon could not rest. 


My brothers — both had ceased to breathe 


I might have spared my idle prayer — 


I took that hand which lay so still. 


They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 


Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 


The flat and turfless earth above 


I had not strength to stir, or strive, 


The being we so much did love ; 


But felt that I was still ahve— 


His empty chain above it leant, 


A frantic feeling when we know 


Such murder's fitting monument ! 


Thit what we love shall ne'er be so. 




I know not why 


vni. 


I could not die. 


But he, the favourite and the flower, 


I had no earthly hope — but faith, 


Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 


And that forbade a selfish death. 


His mother's image in fair face, 


IX. 

What next befell me then and there 


rhe infant love of all his race, 


His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 


I know not well — I never knew — 


My latest care, for whom I sought 


First came the loss of light, and air, 


To hoard my life, that his might be 


And then of darkness too ; 


Less wretched now, and one day free ; 


I had no thought, no feeling — none — 


He, tooj who yet had held untired 


Among the stones I stood a stone. 


A spirit natural or inspired — 


And was, scarce conscious what I wist. 


He, too, was struck, and day by day 


As shrubless crags within the mist ; 


Was wither'd on the stalk away. 


For all was blank, and bleak, and gray- 
It was not night— it was not day. 
It was not even the dungeon-light. 


Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 


To see the human soul take wing 


In any shape, in any mood : — 


So hateful to my heavy sight, 


I 've seen it rushing forth in blood. 


But vacancy absorbing s»^ce, 


I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 


And fixedness — without a place ; 


Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 


There were no stars — no earth — no time- 


I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 


No check — no change — no good — no ciime— 


Of sin delirious with its dread ; 


But silence, and a stirless breath 


But these were horrors — this was woe 


Which neither was of life nor death ; 


Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 


A sea of stagnant idleness. 


He faded, and so calm and meek, 


Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 


So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 




So tearless, yet so tender— kind, 


X. 


And grieved for those he left behind ; 


A light broke in upon my brain. 


With all the while a cheek whose bloom 


It was the carol of a bird ; 


Was as a mockery of the tomb, 


It ceased, and then it came again, 


Whose tints as gently sunk away 


The sweetest song ear ever heard, 


As a departing rainbow's ray — 


And mme was thankful till my eyes 


An eye of most transparent Ught, 


Ran over with the glad surprise, 


That almost made the dungeon bright. 


And they that moment could not see 


And not a word of murmur — not 


I was the mate of misery ; 


A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 


But then by dull degrees came back 


A little talk of better days. 


My senses to their wonted track, 


A little hope my own to raise, 


I saw the dungeon walls and floor 


For I was sunk in silence — lost 


Close slowly round me as before, 


In this ast loss, of all the most ; 


I saw the glimmer of the sun 


And then the sighs he would suppress 


Creeping as it before had done, 


Of fainting nature's feebleness 


But through the crevice where it came 


More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 


That bird was perch'd, as fond and tan*, 


I hsten'd, but I could not hear— 


And tamer than upon the tree ; 


I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 


A lovely bird, with azure wings, 


I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 


And song that said a thousand things. 


Would not be thus admonished ; 


And seem'd to say them all for me ! 


I caTd, and thought I heard a sound — 


I never saw its like before. 


I bur-It my chain with one strong bound, 


I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 


And rusli'd to him: — I found him not, 


It seem'd like me to want a mate. 


[ only surr'd in this black spot. 


But was not half so desolate, 


/ only lived — / only drew 


And it was come to love me when 


Tne ardrursed Woath of dungeon dew; 


None lived to love me so again, 





\, 


THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 211 




A'ld cheering from my dungeon's brink, 


I heard the torrents leap and gush 




Had brought me back to feel and think. 


O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 




I know not if it late were free, 


I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 




Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 


And whiter sails go skimming down ; 




But knowing well captivity, 


And then there was a little isle,'^ 




Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 


Which in my very face did smile, 




Or if it were, in winged guise, 


The only one in view ; 




A visitant from Paradise ; 


A small green isle, it seem'd no more. 




For— Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 


Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 




Which made me both to weep and smile ; 


But in it there were three tall trees. 




I sometimes deem'd that it might be 


And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 




My brother's soul come down to me ; 


And by it there were waters flowing, 




But then at last away it flew, 


And on it there were young flowers trowing, 




And then 't was mortal— well I knew, 


Of gentle breath and hue. 




For he would never thus have flown, 


The fish swam by the castle- wall, 




And left me twice so doubly lone, — 


And they seem'd joyous each and aL ; 




Lone — as \lie corse within its shroud. 


The eagle rode the rising blast, 




Lone — as a solitary cloud. 


Methought he never flew so fast 




A single cloud on a sunny day, 


As then to me he seem'd to fly. 




While all the rest of heaven is clear, 


And then new tears came in my eye. 




A frown upon the atmosphere. 


And I felt troubled — and would fain 




That hath no business to appear 


I had not left my recent chain ; 




When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 


And when I did descend again. 
The darkness of my dim abode 




XL 


Fell on me as a heavy load ; 




A kind of change came in my fate, 


It was as is a new-dug grave, 




My keepers grew compassionate ; 


Closing o'er one we sought to save. 




I know not what had made them so, 


And yet my glance, too much opprest. 




They were inured to sights of woe, 


Had ahnost need of such a rest. 




But so it was : — my broken chain 






With j'nks unfasten'd did remain. 


XIV. 




And it was liberty to stride 


It might be months, or years, or days, 




Along my cell from side to side, 


I kept no count— I took no note, 




And up and do^^^^, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part ; 


I had no hope my eyes to raise. 




And clear them of their dreary mote , 




And round the pillars one by one, 


At last men came to set me free, 




Returning where niy walk begun, 


I ask'd not why, and reck'd not when 




Avoiding only, as I trod, 


It was at length the same to me. 




My brothers' graves without a sod ; 


Fetter'd or fetterless to be — 




For if I thought with heedless tread 


I learn'd to love despair. 




My step profaned their lowly bed. 


And thus when they appear'd at lai 




My breath came gaspingly and thick, 


And all my bonds aside were cast, 




And my crush'd heart fell bUnd and sick. 


These heavy walls to me had grown 




A hermitage — and all my own ! 




XIL 


And half I felt as they were come 




I made a footing in the wall. 


To tear me from a second home : 




It was not therefrom to escape, 


With spiders I had friendship made, 




For I had buried one and all, 


And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 




Who loved me in a human shape ; 


Had seen tlie mice by moonlight play, 




And the whole earth would henceforth be 


And why should I feel less than they ? 




A wider prison unto me : 


We were all inmates of one place. 




No child — no sire — no kin had I, 


And I, the monarch of each race, 




No partner in my misery ; 


Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 




I thought of this, and I was glad, 


In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 




For thought of them had made me mad ; 


My very chains and I grew friends, 




But I was curious to ascend 


So much a long communion tends 




To my barr'd windows, and to bend 


To make us what we are : — even 1 




Once more upon the mountains high. 


Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 




The quiet of a loving eye. 






XIIL 


NOTES. 




I -saw them — and they were the same. 






They were not changed like me in frame ; 


Note I. Page 208, Sonnet, Une 13. 




I saw their thousand years of snow 


By Eonnivard !— may none those marks etfa'-a 




On high — then wide long lake below, 


Francois de Bonmvard, fils de Louis de Bonnivui-j. 




And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 


originaire de Seyssei et Seigneur de Lunes, .laquit ei- 











1M2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1496 ; il fit ses etudes a Turin. En 1510 Jean- Aime 
dc Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le Piieure de Saint- 
Viclor, qui aboutissait aux murs de Geneve, et qui 
f irmait un benefice considerable. 

Ce grand homme (Bonnivard merite ce litre par la 
force de son atne, la droiture de son coeur, la noblesse 
de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage 
Je ses demarches, I'elendue de ses connaissances, et la 
vivacite de son esprit), ce grand homme, qui excitera 
I'admiration de tous ceux qu'une vertu heroique peut 
encore emouvoir, inspircra encore la plus vive recon- 
naissance dans les coeurs des Genevois qui aiment Ge- 
neve. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes 
appuis : pour assurer la liberie de notre Republique, il 
ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia 
son repos ; il meprisa ses richesses ; il ne negligea rien 
pour afFermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son 
choix : d^s ce moment il la cherit comme le plus zele 
de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec Tinlrepidite d'un heros, 
et il ecrivait son histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe 
et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

11 dit dans le commencement de son histoire de Ge- 
neve, que, dis qu'il eut commence de lire Phistoire des 
nations, il se sentit entraine par son gout pour les ri- 
publiques, dont il epousa toujours les interets : c'est ce 
gout pour la liberie qui lui fit sans doute adopter Ge- 
neve pom- sa patrie. 

Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annon9a hautement comme 
le dcfenseur de Genfeve contre le Due de Savoye et 
I'eveque. 

En 1519 Bonnivard devint le martyr de sa patrie : le 
Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq cents 
hommes, Bonnivard craignit le ressentiment du due ; il 
voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour en eviter les suites ; 
niais il fut trahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnaient, 
et conduit par ordre du prince a Grolee, ou il resta pri- 
sonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etait malheureux 
dans ses voyages ; comme ses malheurs n'avaient point 
ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il etait toujours un ennemi 
redoutable pour ceux qui la menacaient, et par conse- 
quent il devait etre expose a leurs coups. 11 fut ren- 
contre en 1530 sur le Jura, par des voleurs, qui le de- 
pouill^rent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du 
Due de Savoye : ce prince le fit enfermer dans le cha- 
teau de Chillon, oil ii resta sans etre interroge jusqu'en 
1536 ; il fut alorsdelivre par les Bernois, qui s'empar^- 
lent du pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de 
itouver Geneve hbre et reformee: la republique s'em- 
pressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance et de le de- 
dommager des maux qu'il avail soufferts ; elle le reeut 
bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin 1536; elle lui 
donna la maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-Gen- 
eral, et elle lui assigna una pension de 200 ecus d'or 
tant qu'il sejournerait a Geneve. II fut admis dans le 
Conseil des Deux-Cenls en 1537. 

Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile: apr^s avoir tra- 
aille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre tole- 
lante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux 
ecclesiastiques el aux paysans un temps suffisant pour 
examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisaic ; il reussit 
p,»r sa douceur: on preche toujours le christianismc 
(tvTcc succes quand on le preche avec charite. 

Bonnivard fut savant ; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans 
» oiblnTbeaue pubhque, prouvent qu'il avail bien lu les 



auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avail approfondi la 
theologie et I'hisloire. Ce grand homme aimait les 
sciences, et il croyait qu'elles pouvaicnt faire la glou-e 
de Geneve ; aussi il ne negligea rien pour les fixer dans 
celte ville naissanle; en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque 
au public ; elle fut le commencement de notre biblio 
theque publique ; ot ces livrcs sont en partie les rares 
et belles editions du quinzieme si^cle qu'on voit dans 
notre collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annee, ce 
bon patriote institua la republique son heriti(^re, a con- 
dition qu'elle emploierait ses biens a entretenir le col- 
lege dont on projetait la fondalion. 

II parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne 
peut I'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le No- 
crologe depuis le mois de Juillel 1570 jusqu'en 1571. 
Note 2. Page 208, line 3. 
In a single night. 

Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted 
of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI., though 
not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have 
the same effect : to such, and not to fear, this chargo 
in hers was to be attributed. 

Note 3. Page 209, line 81. 
From Cliilion's snow-white battlement. 

The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens 
and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the 
Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and 
the range of Alps above Boverel and St. Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent; below it, 
washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the 
depth of 800 feet (French measure) ; within it are a 
range of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and 
subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Across 
one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which 
we were informed that the condemned were formerly 
executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather 
eight, one being half merged in the wall ; in some o. 
these are rings for the fetters and the fettered ; in the 
pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces 
— he was confined here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catas- 
trophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of her chil- 
dren by Julie from the water : the shock of which, and 
the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of 
her death. 

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for e 
great distance. The walls are white. 

Note 4. Page 211, line 65. 
And then there was a little isle. 

Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only 
one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the 
lake, within its circumference. It contains a few trees 
(I think not above three), and from its singleness and 
diminutive size, has a peculiar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed, I was not 
sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I 
should have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an 
attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some 
account of his life will be found in a note appendea i« 
the " Sonnet on Chillon," with which I have been fur- 
nished by the kindness of a citizen of that republic, 
which is still proud of the memory of a man worthy of 
the best age of ancient freedom. 



( 213 ) 


^t»»0. 


A VENETIAN STORY. 


Rosralind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you. lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefite 


of your own country ; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God foi making you that coun- 


tenance you are ; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola. 


As You Like It, Act IV. Scene I 


Annotation of the Commentators. 


That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was 


then what Paris is noio—the seat of all dissoluteness.— 3. A. j 


'T IS known, at least it should be, that throughout 


VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which, being 


All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 


Interpreted, imphes "farewell to flesh:" 


Some weeks before Shrove-Tuesday comes about, 


So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing, 


The people take their fill of recreation. 


Through Lent they live on fish both salt and frcsn 


And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 


But why they usher Lent with so much glee in. 


However high their rank, or low their station. 


Is more than I can tell, ahhough I guess 


Wilh fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, 


'T is as we take a glass with friends at parting, 


And other things that may be had for asking. 


In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 


n. 


vn. 


The moment night with dusky mantle covers 


And thus they bid farewell to carnal disnes. 


The skies (and the more duskily the better), 


And sohd meats, and highly-spiced ragouts. 


The time less hked by husbands than by lovers 


To live for forty days on ill-dressed fishes. 


Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 


Because they have no sauces to their stews. 


A.nd gaiety on resdess tiptoe hovers. 


A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes," 


GiggUng with all the gallants who beset her ; 


And several oaths (which would not suit the Muso 


And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming. 


From travellers accustom'd from a boy 


Guitars, and every otlier sort of strumming. 


To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 


III. 


VIII. 


A.nd there are dresses splendid, but fantastical. 


And therefore humbly I would recommend 


Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 


"The cm-ious in fish-sauce," before they cross 


And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 


The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend. 


Greeks, Romans, Yankee- doodles, and Hindoos ; 


Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 


All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 


(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 


Ah people, as their fancies hit, may choose ; 


By any means least hable to loss). 


But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy — 


Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 


Therefore take heed, ye freethinkers ! I charge ye. 


Or, by the Lord ! a Lent v/ill well nigh starve ye ; 


IV. 


IX. 


You 'd better walk about begirt with briars, 


That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 


Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 


And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 


A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 


According to the proverb, — although no man, 


Although you swore it only was in fun ; 


If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you. 


They 'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 


If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 


Of Phlegethon with every mother's son. 


Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 


Nor say one mass to cool the cauldron's bubble 


Dine, and be d d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 


That boil'd your bpnes, unless you paid thenj double. 

V. 

But, saving this, you may put on whate'er ■ 


But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 


X. 

Of all the places where the Camivai 


"V ou like, by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 


Was most facetious in the days of yore, 


Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, 


For dance and song, and serenaoe, and ball, 


Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 


And masque, and mime and mystery, and mor* 


And even in Italy such places are. 


Than I have tirr.e to tell now, or at all. 


With prettier names in softer accents spoke, 


Venice the bell from every city bore, 


For, baling Covent-Garden, I can hit on 


And at :he moment when I fix my story 


No place that's called " Piazza" in Great Britain. 
W 


That sea-born city was in all her glor/ 





214 BYRON S WORKS. 


XI. 


XVIII. 


They 've pretty faces yet, ihose same Venetians, 


Tlieir jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 


Ulack eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still, 


Is of a fair complexion altogether. 


Siicli as of old were copied from the Grecians, 


Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, 


In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill; 


Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 


Aid like so many Venuses of Titian's 


But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 


(The best 's at Florence — see it, if ye will), 


When weary of the matrimonial tether 


'1 hey look when leaning over the balcony, 


His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 


Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 


But takes at once another, or another's. 


XII. 


XIX. 


Whose tints are truth and beauty at their 'best; 


Didst ever see a gondola ? For fear 


And when you to Manfrini's palace go, 


You should not, I '11 describe it you exactly ; 


That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 


'T is a long cover'd boat that 's common here, 


Is loveliest to my mind of all the show : 


Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly 


It may perhaps be also to your zest. 


Row'd by two rowers, each called "Gondolier," 


And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so, 


It glides along the water looking blackly. 


'T is but a portrait of his son, and wife, 


Just like a coflin clapt in a canoe. 


And self; but such a woman ! love in life ! 


Where none can make out what you say or do. 


xm. 


XX. 


Love m full life and length, not love ideal, 


And up and down the long canals they go, 


No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 


And under the Rialto shoot along, 


But something better still, so very real, 


By night and day, all paces, swift or slow. 


That the sweet model must have been the same : 


And round the theatres, a sable throng, 


A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 


They wait in their dusk livery of woe. 


Wer 't not impossible, besides a shame : 


But not to them do woful things belong, 


The face recalls some face, as 't were with pain. 


For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 


You once have seen, but ne'er will see again : 


Like mourning coaches when the funeral 's done. 


XIV. 


XXI. 


One of those forms which flit by us, when we 


But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 


Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 


It may be thirty, forty, more or less. 


And, oh ! the loveliness at times we see 


The Carnival was at its height, and so 


In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 


Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 


The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree 


A certain lady went to see the show. 


In many a nameless being we retrace, 


Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 


Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 


And so we '11 call her Laura, if you please, 


Like the lost Pleiad » seen no more below. 


Because it slips into my verse with ease. 


XV. 


XXII. 


I said that like a picture by Giorgione 


She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 


Venetian women were, and so they are. 


Which certain people call a ''^certain age," 


Particularly seen from a balcony 


Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 


(For beauty's sometimes best set off afar); 


Because I never heard, nor could engage 


And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 


A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears. 


They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar. 


To name, define by speech, or write on page, 


And, truth to say, they 're mostly very pretty. 


The period meant precisely by that word,— 


And rather like to show it, more's the pity! 


Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 


XVI. 


XXIII. 


For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs. 


Laura was blooming still, had made the best 


Sig)is wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 


Of time, and time return'd the compliment, 


Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 


And treated her genteelly, so that, drest. 


Who do such things because they know no better ; 


She look'd extremely well where'er she went ' 


And tnen, God knows what mischief may arise, 


A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 


When love links two young people in one fetter, 


And Laura's brow a f-own had rarely bent; 


Vile assignations, and adulterous beds. 


Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flattei 


Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 


Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 


XVII. 


XXIV. 


ShaKspeare described the sex in Desdemona 


She was a married woman ; . 't is convenient. 


As very fair, h\t et suspect in fame. 


Because in Christian countries 'tis a ru.e 


And lo this day, from Venice to Verona, 


To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 


Such matters may be probably the same, 


Whereas if single ladies play the fool. 


Except that since those times was never known a 


(Unless within the period intervenient, 


Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 


A well-timed wedding makys the scandal coor, 


To sutFooate a wl«i> no more than twenty. 


I don't know how they ever can get over it 


Because she had a "cavalier servente." 


Except they manage never to discover ii. 



BEPPO. 21 5 


XXV. 


XXXII. 


Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 


His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound 


And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 


Hush'd " academic" sigh'd ni silent awe ; 


And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 


The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 


(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 


For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 


His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 


The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound, 


For thence she could discern the ship with ease : 


Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah!" 


He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 


Soprano, basso, even the contra-aUo, 


His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.2 


Wish'd him five fathoms under the RiaJto. 


XXVI. 


xxxin. 


He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 


He patronized the improv\'isatori, 


Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 


Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 


Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, 


Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also teli a story, 


He was a person both of sense and vigour— 


Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 


A better seaman never yet did man yard : 


Italians can be, though in this their glory 


And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, 


Must surely yield the palm to tl\at which France has , 


Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 


In short, he was a perfect cavaliero. 


So much as to be thought almost in\'incible. 


And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 


XXVII. 


XXXIY. 


But several years elapsed since they had met ; 


Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 


So\ne people thought the ship was lost, and some 


So that no sort of female could complain. 


That he had somehow biunder'd into debt, 


Although they 're now and then a little clamorous, 


And did not like the thoughts of steering home ; 


He never put the pretty souls in pain : 


And there were several ofFer'd any bet. 


His heart was one of those which most enamour us, 


Or that he would, or that he would not come, 


Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 


For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 


He was a lover of the good old school. 


Will back their owm opinions with a wagsr. 


VMio siill become more constant as they cool. 


XXVIII. 


XXXV. 


Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, 


No wonder such accomplishments should turn 


As partings often are, or ought to be, 


A female head, however sage and steady— 


And their presentiment was quite prophetic 


With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 


That they should never more each other see, 


In law he was almost as good as dead, he 


(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic. 


Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 


Which I have kno^^•n occur in two or three). 


And she had waited several years already ; 


When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 


And really if a man won't let us know 


He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 


That he 's aUve, he 's dead, Of should be so. 


XXIX. 


XXXVI. 


And Laura waited long, and wept a little. 


Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 


And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might ; 


(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin). 


She almost lost all app^itite for victual. 


'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 


And could not s'eep with ease alone at night ; 


I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 


She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 


But "CavaUer Serventes" are quite comm^on, 


Against a daring housebreaker or sprite. 


And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 


And so she thought it prudent to connect her 


And we may call this (not to say the worst) 


With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect Iier. 


A second maniage which corrupts the first. 


XXX. 


XXXVII. 


She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 


The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 


If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 


But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 


'Till Beppo should return from his long cruise. 


The Spaniards call the person a " Curtejo,"^ 


And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice. 


For the same mode subsists in Spain, though reccm 


A man some wom.en like, and yet abuse — 


In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 


A coxcomb was he by the public voice : 


And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 


A count of wcalthj they said, as well as quality, 


But Heaven preserve Old England from such coursei ' 


And in his pleasures ot ^eat liberality. 


Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 


XXXL 


XXXVIII. 


And then he was a coi -t, and then he knew 


However, I still think, with all due deference 


Music and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan ; 


To the fair single part of the creation, 


The last not easj', bo h known to you. 


Thct married ladies should preserve the preference 


For few Italians sji<>ak the right Etruscan. 


In tcte-u-itte or general conversation — 


He was a critic upon operas too. 


And this I say without peculiar reference 


And k2iew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 


To England, France, or any other nation 


And no Ysaetian auJirac3 'Could endure a 


Because they know the world, and are at ease. 


Song, scene, or a^r, >vhen iie cried "seccatura." 


And being natural, naturaLy ple-ase. 





nc 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXIX. 

T is true, your budding INIiss is very charming, 

But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
So n\uch alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, 

All giggle, blush ; — half pertness, and half pout ; 
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 

What you, she, it, or they, maj^ be about. 
The nursery still Hsps out in all they utter — 
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 
But " Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call. 
And carries fan, and tippet, gloves, and shawl. 

XLI. 
With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy 's a pleasant place to me. 
Who love to see the sun shine every day. 

And \nnes (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see. 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out. 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 

Because the skies are not the most secure : 
. know too that, if stopp'd upon my route. 

Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
Reehng with grapes red vagons choke the way — 
In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 
I also like to dine on becaficas. 

To see the sun set, sure he'il rise to-morrow. 
Not through a misty morning twinkhng weak as 

A drvmken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow. 
But with all heaven t' himself; that day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing-candle light which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers. 

XLiV. 
T love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin. 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet south. 
And gentle liquids ghding all so pat in, 

Fnat not a single accent seems uncouth, 
LiKe our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural. 
Which we 're obhged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 

XLV. 
I like the women too (forgive my folly), 

Fron. the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze. 
And lai ge black eyes that flash on you a volley 

Of rays that say a thousand things at once. 
To il^e high dama's brow, more melancholy. 

But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 
tleart on her hps^ and soui within her eyes, 
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 



XLVL 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise! 

Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael,'' who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of heaven, or can desire. 
In what he hath bequeath'd us ? — in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre. 
Would words describe thy past and present glow. 
While yet Canova can create below. + 

XLVII. 
" England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 

I said at Calais, and have not forgot it 3 
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 

I Uke the government (but that is not it); 
I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 

1 like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); 
I like a parliamentary debate. 
Particularly when 't is not too late ; 

XLvm. 

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 

I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear ,* 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer, 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the regent, church, and king ! 
Which means that I like all and every thing. 

XLTX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen. 

Poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's debt 
Our little riots just to show we 're freemen. 

Our trifling bankruptcies in the gazette. 
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. 

All these I can forgive, and those forget. 
And greatly venerate our recent glories, 
And wish they were not owing to the tories. 

L. 
But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind. 

And, caring little for the authors ease, 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 
Oh ! that I had the art of easy %vriting 

What should be easy reading ! could I scale 
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 

Those pretty poems never known to fail. 
How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 

A Grecian, Syrian, or Ass3Tian tale ; 
And sell you, mix'd with western senlimentalism, 
Some samples of the finest orientaUsm. 



* JVofe. 
In talking thus, the writer, more especially 

Of women, would be understood to say. 
He speaks as a spectator, not officially. 

And always, reader, in a modest way ; 
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay. 
Since, as all kpow, without the sex, our sonneta 

Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonneti 
fSignedl Printer's Decii 



BEPPO. 



217 



LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person 

(A broken dandy lately on my travels), 
And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse c«i, 

The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 
And when I can't find that, I put a -worse on, 

Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 
[ 've half a mind to tumble down to prose. 
But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 
The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 

Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do. 
For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 

They had their little differences too ; 
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change mccint : 

In such affairs there probably are few 
Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble. 
From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 
But on the whole they were a happy pair. 

As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 

Their chains so slight, 't was not worth while to break 
them : 
The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 

The pious only wish'd "the devil take them!" 
He took them not ; he very often -waits. 
And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 

LV. 
But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 

Would love be ? What would youth be -without love ? 
Youth lends its joy, and sweetness, \'igour, truth. 

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 

One of few things experience don't improve. 
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old feUows 
Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVL 
It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six- and- thirty stanzas back, and so 
Laura the usual preparations made. 

Which you do when your mind 's made up to go 
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 

Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
The only difference known between the cases 
Is — here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces." 

Lvn. 

Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen. 
Fresh as the angel o'er a new inn-door. 

Or frontispiece of a new magazine. 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between 
rhat and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

Lvm. 

They went to the Ridotto ;— 't is a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again : 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a mask'd ball. 
But that's of no importance to my strain; 

'T is (on a smaller scale) Uke our Vauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

Tde company is "mixt" (the phrase I quote is, 

A.S much as saying, they're below your notice), 
w 2 33 



LIX. 

For a " mixt company " imphes, that, save 

Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 
Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 

The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
Of public places, where they basely brave 

The fashionable stare of twenty score 
Of well-bred persons, called '■Hhe world;'''' but I, 
Although I know them, really don't know why. 

LX. 
This is the case in England ; at least was 

During the ds'nasty of dandies, now 
Perchance succeeded by some other class 

Of imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion : all below 
Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 

Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
Stopp'd by the elements, Hke a whaler, or 

A blundering no-vice in his new French grammar , 
Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 

And as for fortune — but I dare not d — n her. 
Because were I to ponder to infinity. 
The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 
She rules the present, past, and all to be yet. 

She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 
I cannot say that she 's done much for me yet ; 

Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall sci yet 

How much she '11 make amends for past miscarriage 
Meantime the goddess I '11 no more importune. 
Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 
To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it. 

This story sUps for ever through my fingers. 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it. 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I can't well break it. 

But must keep time and tune like public singers : 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I 'U take another when I 'm next at leisure. 

LXIV. 
They went to the Ridotto — 't is a place 
I To which I mean to go myself to-morrow. 
Just to divert my thoughts a little space. 

Because I 'm rather hippish, and may borrow 
Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask, and as my soiiow 
Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find 
Something shall leave it half an hour behind, 

LXV. 
Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd. 

Smiles in her ej^es, and simpers on her lips ; 
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 

To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 
Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow &, 

Her lover brings the lemonade, — she sips ; 
She then surveys, condemns, but pities stii 
Her dearest friends for being drest bo ill. 



218 BYROrNiS 


II 
WORKS. 


LXVI. 


Lxxin. 


One lias false curls, another too much paint, 


No solemn, antique gentleman of rhj-me. 


A third— where did she buy that frightful turban ? 


Who having angled all his life for fame, 


4 fourth's so pale she fears she 's going to faint. 


And getting but a nibble at a time. 


A fifth's look's vulsar, dowd}-ish, and suburban, 


Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 


A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint. 


Small " Triton of the mmnows," the sublime 


A seventh's thin mushn surely will be her bane, 


Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 


And lo ! an eighth appears,—" I '11 see no more !" 


The echo's echo, usher of the school 


For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 


Of female wits, boy-bards — in short, a fool ! 


Lxvn. 


LXXIV. 


Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing. 


A stalking oracle of awful phrase. 


Others were levelling their looks at her ; 


The approving " Good !''' (by no means good in law) 


She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising. 


Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 


And, till 't was done, determined not to stir ; 


The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 


The women only thought it quite amazing 


Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 


That at her time of Ufe so many were 


Gorging the httle fame he gets all raw. 


Admirers still,— but men are so debased. 


Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 


Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 


And sweating plays so middling, bad were better 


LX^TII. 


LXXT. 


For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 


One hates an author, that 's cU author^ fellows 


Why naughty women but I won't discuss 


In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 


A thing which is a scandal to the land. 


So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. 


I only don't see why it should be thus : 


One don't know what to sav to ihem, or think, 


And if I were but in a gown and band. 


Unless to pufF them with a pair of bellows ; 


Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 


Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 


L:d preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 


Are preferable to these shreds of paper. 


Should quote in iheir next speeches from my homily. 


These unquench'd sniiffings of the midm^al taper. 


LXIX. 


LXX^T. 


While Laura thus was seen and seemg, smiling, 


Of these same we see several, and of others. 


Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 


]Men of" the world, who know the world like men, 


So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 


S — tt, R s, M— re, and all the better brothers, 


Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 


Who think of something else besides the pen ; 


And well-drest males stiU kept before her filing. 


But for the children of the "mighty mother's," 


And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 


The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen. 


.More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 


I leave thera to their daily "tea is read}-," 


Willi pertinacity that 's ratlier rare. 


Snug coterie, and hterary lady. 


LXX. 


Lxxvn. 


He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 


The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 


And Laura saw him, and at first was glad. 


Have none of these instructive pleasant people ; 


Because the Turks so much admire phUogyny, 


And one would seem to them a new invention. 


Although their usa se of their wives is sad ; 


Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 


'T is Stud they use no better than a dog any 


I think 't would almost be worth while to pension 


Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 


(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 


They have a nimiber, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 


A missionary author, just to preach 


Four wives by law, and concubines " ad hbitum." 


Our Ciiristian usage of the parts of speech. 


LXXI. 


T.xxvm. 


They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily. 


No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses. 


They scarcely can behold their male relations, 


No metaphysics are let loose in lectures. 


So that their moments do not pass so gaily 


No circulating library amasses 


As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 


Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 


Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely ; 


Upon the living manners as they pass us ; 


And ds the Turks abhor long conversations. 


No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 


Thf^ir days are either pass'd in doing nothing. 


They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 


Oi bath-ng, nursing, making love, and clothing. 


Nor deal (thank God for that ! ) in mathematics. 


Lxxn. 


LXXIX. 


Tbe> cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 


Why I tnank God for that Ls no great matter, 


Nor write, and so they don't aiFsct the muse ; 


I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose. 


Wen- never caught m epigram or witticism. 


And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 


Have no romances, sermons, plays, re\-iews, — 


I '11 keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 


Id haiams leaxning soon would make a pretty schism ! 


I fear I have a Uttie turn for satire. 


But luckily these beauties are no "blues," 


And yet methinks the older that one grows 


No busflmg Botherbys have they to show 'em 


Inclines us more to iaugh than scold, though laugbt« 


Taat charming passage \n the last new poem." 


Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after 



BEPPO. 



219 



LXXX. 

On, mirth and innocence ! Oh, milk and water ! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable man no more allays 
His thirst with suth pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 
Our Laura's Turk still kepi his eyes upon her, 

Less in the Mussulman than Christian way. 
Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honour, 

And while I please to stare, you '11 please to stay ;" 
Could staring win a woman this had won her. 

But Laura could not thus be led astray, 
She had stood firo, too long and well to boggle 
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXIL 
The mommg now was on the point of breaking, 

A turn of time at which I would advise 
Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 

In any other kind of exercise, 
To make their preparations for forsaking 

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise. 
Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
His blushes make them look a little pale. 

LXXXIII. 

I 've seen some balls and revels in my time, 
And staid them over for some silly reason 

And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime). 
To see what lady best stood out the season ; 

And though I 've seen some thousands in their prime. 
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 

I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn). 

Whose bloom could after dancing dare the da^vn. 

LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I '11 not mention, 

Although I might, for she was nought to me 
More than that patent work of God's invention, 

A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 
But writing names would merit reprehension. 

Yet, if you like to find out this fair she. 
At the next London or Parisian ball 
You still may ^lark her cheek, out-blooming all. 

LXXXV. 
Laura, who knew it would not do at all 

To meet the day-light after seven hours' sitting 
Among three thousand people at a ball. 

To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting ; 
The count was at her elbow with her shawl, 

And they the room were on the point of quitting. 
When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 
Just m the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 
In this they 're like our coachmen, and the cause 

Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling. 
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws. 

They make a never-intermitted bawling. 
At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws. 

And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 
But, for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 
And nauseous words: oast mentioning or bearing. 



LXXXVII. 

The count and Laura found their boat at last. 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide. 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Some little scandal eke : but all aghast 

(As to their palace-stairs the rowers glide). 

Sate Laura by the side of her adorer, 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXVIII. 

" Sir," said the count, with brow exceeding grave^ 
" Your unexpected presence here will make 

It necessary for myself to crave 

Its import! But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 

I hope it is so ; and at once to waive 
All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 

You understand my meaning, or you shall.''^ 

" Sir," (quoth the Turk) <' 't is no mistake at all. 

LXXXIX. 

That lady is my wife ! " Much wonder paints 

The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 
But where an Enghshwoman sometimes faints, 

Italian females don 't do so outright ; 
They only call a little on their saints, 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite : 
Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkhngiacip*, 
And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 

XC. 
She said — what could she say ? Why, not a word : 

But the count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 

" Such things perhaps we 'd best discuss within,' 
Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

XCL 
They enter'd, and for coffee call'd, — it came, 

A beverage for Turks and Christians both. 
Although the way they make it 's not the same. 

Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
To speak, cries, " Beppo ! what 's your pagan name '' 

Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
And how came you to keep away so long ? 
Are you not sensible 't was very wrong ? 

XCII. 
" And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 

With any other women did you wive ? 
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 

Well, that 's the prettiest shawl — as I 'ra alive ! 
You '11 give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 

To Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I nevar 

Saw a man grown so yellow ! How 's your liver' 

XCIII. 
" Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you no' 

It shall be shaved before you 're a day older ; 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 

Pray, don't you think the weather here is co.der f 
How do I look ? you sha'n't stir fron *his spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it 's grovp ' " 



'J20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCIV. 

What answer Beppo made to these demands, 
Is more than 1 know. He was cast away 

About wliere Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
Became a slave, of course, and for his pay 

Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 

He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 

A renegado of indifferent fame. 

xcv. 

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again, 

He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
And not be always thieving on the main ; 

Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Cmsoe : 
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 

Bound for Corfu ; she was a fine polacca, 

Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 

XCVI. 

Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten) cash. 
He then embark'd with risk of life and limb, 

And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
He said that Providence protected him— 

For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim. 

Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 

Fxcept three daj's of calm when off" Cape Bonn. 

XCVII. 

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading, 
And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 

And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading 
With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em. 

However, he got off by this evading. 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 

And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 



xcvni. 

His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him, 

(He made the church a present by the way) ; 
He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 

And borrow'd the count's small-clothes for a day ; 
His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 

Finding he 'd wherewhhal to make them gay, 
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of then: 
Foi- svories, — but / don't beUeve the half of them. 

XCIX. 
Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age 

With wealth and talking made him some amends , 
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 

I 've heard the count and he were always friends 
My pen is at the bottom of a page. 

Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 
'T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 



NOTES. 



Note L Stanza xiv, line 8. 

Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below. 

" Q,ua3 septem dici sex tamen esse sclent." — Ovid 

Note 2. Stanza xxv, line 8. 

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo 

Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxvii, line 3. 
The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo." 
"Cortejo" is pronounced " Cortejo," with an as- 
pirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means 
what there is as yet no precise name for in England 
though the practice is as common as in any tramontane 
country whatever. 

Note 4. Stanza xlvi, hne 3. 
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies. 
For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael'^ 
death, see his Lives. 



jaair»»^* 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etoit un 
gentilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le 
palatinat de Padolie ; il avaif ete eleve page de Jean 
Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des 
nelles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse 
avec la fenime d'un gentilhomme Polonais, ayant ete 
decouverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval 
•arouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le chetal, qui 
^tait du pays de TUkraine, y retouma, et y porta Ma- 
zeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques 
paysans le secoururent : il resta long-temps parmi eux, 
et se signala dans olusieurs courses contre les Tartares. 
La superiorite ae ses mmiferes lui donna une grande 
consideration parmi les Cosaques : sa reputation s'aug- 
Kientant de jf/ur en jour, obligea Ic Czar k le faire 
Prince ae I'Ukraine." 

Voltaire, flwtotre de Charles XII. p. 196. 



" Le roi fuyant et poursuivi eut son chevai tue sous 
lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son sarig, 
lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, dans 
la fuite, ce conqu^rant qui n'avait pu y monter pen- 
dant la bataille." 

Voltaire, Histoire de Charles XII. p. 216. 

" Le roi alia par un autre cherain avec quelques cav- 
aliers. Le carrosse ou il etait rompit dans la marche; 
on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il 
s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son courage 
ne pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees, les dou- 
leurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par 
la fatigue, son cheval etant tombe de lassitude, il s« 
coucha quelques heures, au pied d'un arbre, en danger 
d'etre surpris b. tout moment par les vainqueurs qui ie 
cherchaient de tous c6tes." 

Voltaire, Histoire de Charles XII. f 218. 



MAZEPPA. 



2-2] 



MAZEPPA. 



I. 

'T WAS after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughter'd army lay. 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear. 
And a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 

II. 

Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night, through field and flood, 

Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard to upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour. 

When truth had nought to dread from power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue ; 

And in the depth of forests, darkling 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In out- worn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff"— his limbs were stark- 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
And thus it was ; but yet through all. 
King-like the monarch bore his fall. 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will ; 
All silent and subdued were they. 
As once the nations round him lay. 

m. 

A band of chiefs !— alas ! how few, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous ; upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed, 
For danger levels man and brute. 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 
The Ukraiiie's hetman, calm and bold ; 



But first, outspent with this long course, 

The Cossack prince rvibb'd down his horse. 

And made for him a leafy bed, 

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein 

And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 

For until now he had the dread 

His wearied courser might refuse 

To browse beneath the midnight dews : 

But he was hardy as his lord, 

And little cared for bed and board ; 

But spirited and docile too, 

Whate'er was to be done, would do ; 

Shaggy and swift, and strong of hmb. 

All Tartar-like he carried him ; 

Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 

And knew him in the midst of all ; 

Though thousands were Eu-ound, — and niglu^ 

Without a star, pursued her flight, — 

That steed from sunset until dawn 

His chief would follow like a fawn. 
IV. 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak. 

Felt if his arms in order good 

The long day's march had well withstood — 

If still the powder fiU'd the pan, 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 

His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 

And whether they had chafed his belt — 

And next the venerable man. 

From out his haversack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock 

And to the monarch and his men 

The whole or portion oR'er'd then, 

With far less of inquietude 

Than courtiers at a banquet would. 

And Charles of this his slender share 

With smiles partook a moment there. 

To force of cheer a greater show. 

And seem above both wounds and woe ;— 

And then he said — " Of all our band, 

Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 

In skirmish, march, or forage, none 

Can less have said, or more have done, 

Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 

So fit a pair had never birth, 

Since Alexander's days till now. 

As thy Bucephalus and thou : 

All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 

For pricking on o'er flood and field." 

Mazeppa answer'd — "III betide 

The school wherein I learn'd to ride !" 

Quoth Charles— "Old hetman, wherefore wi. 

Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?" 

Mazeppa said — " 'T were long to tell ; 

And we have many a league to go 

With every now and then a blow. 

And ten to one at least the foe, 

Before our steeds may graze at ease 

Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 

And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 

And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop." — " But I reques.. 
Said Sweden's monarch, "thcu wilt te^ 





) 1 

2-22 BYROXS WORKS. 


This tale of i hine, and I may reap 


That there were few, or boys or n'.en, 


Perchance from this the boon of sleep ; 


Who, in my dawning time of day. 


For at this moment from my eyes 


Of vassal or c^ knight's degree. 


The hope of present slumber flies." 


Could vie in vanities with me ; 


" Well, sire, with such a hope, I '11 track 


For I had strength, youth, gaiety. 


My seventy years of memory back : 


A port not like to this ye see, 


I think 't was in my twentietli spring, — 


But smooth, as all is rugged now j 


Ay, 't was, — when Casimir was king — 
John Casimir,— I was his page 


For time, and care, and war, have plough 'd 


My very soul from out my brow ; 


Six summers in my earher age ; 


And thus I should be disavow'd 


A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 


By all my kind and kin, could they 


And most unlike your majesty : 


Compare my day and yesterday ; 


He made no wars, and did not gain 


This change was wrought, too, long ere ag« 


New realms to lose them back again ; 


Had ta'en my features for his page : 


And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 


Witli years, we know, have not declined 


He reign'd in most unseemly quiet j 


My strength, mj' courage, or my mind. 


Not that he had no cares to vex, 


Or at this hour I should not be 


He loved the muses and the sex ; 


TelUna old tales beneath a tree 


And sometimes these so froward are, 


With starless skies my canopy. 


They made him wish himself at war ; 


But let me on : Theresa's form — 


But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 


Methinks it glides before me now, 


Another mistress, or new book : 


Between me and yon chesnut's bough. 


Ajid then he gave prodigious fetes — 


The memory is so quick and warm j 


ill Warsaw gather'd round his gates 


And yet I find no words to tell 


To gaze upon his splendid court, 


The shape of her I loved so well : 


And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 


She had the Asiatic eye, 


He was the Polish Solomon, 


Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 


So sung his poets, all but one. 


Hath mingled with our Polish blood 


Who, being vmpension'd, made a satire, 


Dark as above us is the sky ; 


And boasted that he could not flatter. 


But tlirough it stole a tender light, 


It was a court of jousts and mimes. 


Like the first moonrise at midnight : 


Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 


Large, dark, and swimming in the stream. 


Even I for once produced some verses, 


Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 


And sign'd my odes, Despairing Thirsis. 


All love, half languor, and half fire, 


There was a certain Palatine, 


Like saints that at the stake expire. 


A count of far and high descent, 


And Uft their raptured looks on high. 


Rich as a salt or silver mine ; ' 


As though it were a joy to die. 


And ne was proud, ye may divine. 


A brow like a midsummer lake, 


As if from heaven he had been sent : 


Transparent with the sun therein, 


He had such wealth in blood and ore. 


When waves no murmur dare to make. 


As few could match beneath the throne ; 


And heaven beholds her face within. 


And he would gaze upon his store. 


A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 


And o'er his pedigree would pore, 


I loved her then — I love her still ; 


UntU by some confusion led. 


And such as I am, love indeed 


Which almost look'd like want of head. 


In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 


He thought their merits were his own. 


But stUl we love even in our rage, 


tfis \vife was not of his opinion — 


And haunted to our very age 


His junior she by thirty years— 


With the vain shadow of the past. 


»Trew daily tired of his dominion ; 


As is Mazeppa to the last. 


And, after wishes, hopes, and fears. 




To virtue a few farewell tears. 


\T 


A restless dream or two, some glances 


" We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
There are ten thousand tones and signs 


HI Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances. 


riiose happy accidents which render 


We hear and see, but none defines — 


The coldest dames so very tender. 


Involuntary sparks of thought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erv\roughl. 


To deck her count with titles given. 


'T is said, as passports into heaven ; 


And form a strange intelligence. 


Belt, strange to say, they rarelv boast 


Alike mvsterious and intense. 


j Of these who have deservea them m«st. 


Which hnk the burning chain that binds. 


V. 


Without theu- ^^'ill, young hearts and minds j 


" I Was a goodly stripling then ; 


Conveying, as the electric wire. 


At seventy years I so may say, 


We know not how, the absorbing fire.— 


« This compar-son of a " salt mine " may perhaps be per- 


I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept. 


•niued to h Pole, as the wealth of the country coosists greatly 
J) iho salt nunca 

[■ _^ . 


And still reluctant distance kept, 



MAZEPPA. 



OO"^ 



[Jntil I wcLs made known to her, 
And we might then and there conter 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

1 long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
But on my hps thev died again. 

The accents tremulous and weak, 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish plav, 

Wherewith we while awaj^ the day j 
It is — I have forsol tlie name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set, 
B3' some strange chance, which I forget : 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh 1 to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well!) 

Until I saw, and thus it was. 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
i'et bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winnmg lot. 

Then through my brain the thought did pass 

Even as a flash of hghtning there, 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth, 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was httle worth. 
But yet she listen' d — 't is enough — 

Who listens once will Usten ivaee ; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
And one refusal no rebuff. 

VU. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me. Sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties : if 't is true, 
1 shorten all my joy or pain. 
To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
But aD men are not born to reign. 
Or o'er their passions, or, as you. 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I ani — or rather v:as — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost bleed j 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The like control — But to resume: 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom. 

But yet where happiness ends in pain. — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery expectation's dower. 
Mv daj's £md nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour, which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 
No other like itself— I 'd give 
The Ukraine back again to hve 
It o'er once more — and be a page, 
The happv page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword. 



And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of jouth and health — 
We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would have given 

]My hfe but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven ; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

" For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us : — the devil 

On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I 'm loth to do him wrong. 

It might be some untoward saint. 
Who would not be at rest too long. 

But to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The count was something more than wrotk— 
I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
AU cap-a-pic, from head to heel, 
What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? 
'T was near his castle, far away 

From city or from succour near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another. 

My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two. 
As I resign'd me to my fate. 
They led me to the castle gate : 
Theresa's doom I never knew. 
Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
An angry man, ye may opine. 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
And he had reason good to be. 

But he was most enraged lest such 

An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree ; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
While he was highest of his line : 
Because unto himself he seem'd 

The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
In others' eves, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath! with a. page — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing : 
But vnth a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 

IX. 

" * Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was brT,igh^ 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who look'd as though the speed of though! 
Were in his hmbs : but he was wild. 

Wild as the \\-ild deer, and vmtaught. 
With spur and bridle undehJed- 

'T was but a day he had been caught , 
And snorting, with erected mane. 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain. 
In the fijU foam of wTath and dread 
To me the desert-dom was led : 



'224 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



They bound me on, that menial throng, 
ITpon his back with many a thong ; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

X. 

" Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 

I saw not where he hurried on : 

'T was scarcely yet the break of day, 

And on he foam'd — away ! — away !— 

The last of human sounds which rose, 

As I was darted from my foes, 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 

And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 
And writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
Tlie thunder of my courser's speed, 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed ; 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
Their crackling battlements all cleft. 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
Whose thiclcness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain. 
When lanch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash. 

That one day I should come again. 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
rhey bound me to his foaming flank ; 
At length I play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last suts all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour. 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven. 
The patient search and vigil long 
*)r him who treasures up a wrong. 

XI. 

•'Away, awaj', my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the wind. 
Ail human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequer'd with the northern light : 
Town — village — none were on our track, 
But a wild plain of far extent, 



And bounded by a forest black : 

And, save the scarce-seen battlement 
On distant heiglits of some strong hold, 
Against the Tartars built of old. 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray^ 
And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell hke rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane : 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career : 
At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slacken'd in his speed : 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to liis angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln hmbs from their agony 
Increased his fury and afli-ight : 
I tried my voice, — 't was faint and low. 
But 3'et he swerved as from a blow ; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er , 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 

" We near'd the wild wood — 't was so wide, 

I saw no bounds on cither side ; 

'T was studded with old sturdy trees. 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few, and far between. 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 

Ere strown by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 

Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 

Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 

Upon the slain when battle 's o'er. 

And some long winter's night hath siied 

Its frost o'er every tombless head. 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek • 

'T was a wild waste of underwood, 

And here and there a chesnut stood. 

The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were. 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By night I heard them on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 



fj — 

MAZEPPA. 22.^ 


VVith their long gallop, which can tire 


Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 


The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 


Fever begins upon the brain ; 


Where'er we flew they foUow'd on, 


But soon il pass'd, with little pain, 


Nor left us with the morning sun ; 


But a confusion worse than such : 


Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 


I own that I should deem it much, 


At daybreak winding through the wood, 


Dying, to <eel the same again ; 


And through the night had heard their feet 


And yet I do suppose we must 


Their steaUng, rusthng step repeat. 


Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 


Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 


No matter ; I have bared my brow 


At least to die amidst the horde, 


Full in Dentil's face— before— and now. 


And perish — if it must be so — 


XIV. 

"My thoughts came back; where was I'/ Cold 


At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 


I wish'd the goal already won ; 

But now I doubted strength and speed. 


And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 


Life reassumed its lingering hold, 


Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 


And throb by throb ; till grown a pang 


Had nerved him like the mountain-roe j 


Which ^or a moment would convulse, 


Nor faster falls the blinding snow 


My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill , 


Which whelms the peasant near the door 


My ear with uncouth noises rang, 


Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 


My heart began once more to thrill ; 


Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 


My sight return'd, though dim, alas ! 


Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 


And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 


Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 


All furious as a favour'd child 


There was a gleam too of the sky, 


Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 


Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 


A woman piqued — who has her will. 


The wild horse swims the wilder stream I 




The bright broad river's gushing tide 


XIII. 


Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 


"The wood was past; 'twas more than noon; 


And we are half-way struggling o'er 


But chill the air, although in June ; 


To yon unknown and silent shore. 


Or it might be my veins ran cold — 


The waters broke my hollow trance , 


Prolong'd endurance tames the bold : 


And with a temporary strength 


And I was then not what I seem, 


My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 


But headlong as a wintry stream, 


My courser's broad breast proudly bravet,. 


And wore my feeUngs out before 


And dashes off the ascending waves. 


I wea could count their causes o'er : 


And onward we advance ! 


And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 


We reach the slippery shore at length 


The tortures which beset my path, 


A haven I but little prized, 


Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 


For all behind was dark and drear, 


Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 


And all before was night and fear. 


Sprung from a race whose rising blood 


How many hours of night or day 


When slirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 


In those suspended pangs I lay. 


And trodden hard upon, is like 


I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 


The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 


If this were human breath I drew. 


What marvel if this worn-out trunk 




Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 


XV. 


The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 


" With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 


I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 


And reehng limbs, and reeking flank, 


But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 


The wild steed's sinewy nerves still stiaiu 


My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 


Up the repelling bank. 


And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more: 


We gain the top : a boundless plain 


The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 


Spreads through the shadow of the nigTii, 


I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 


* And onward, onward, onward, seems 


And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 


Like precipices in our dreams, 


Which S3,w no farther : he who dies 


To stretch beyond the sight; 


Can die no more than then I died. 


And here and there a speck of Mhito, 


O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 


Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. 


I felt the blackness come and go. 


In masses broke into the light. 


And strove to wake ; but could not make 


As rose the moon upon my right. 


My senses climb up from below : 


But nought distinctly seen 


I felt as on a plank at sea, 


In the dim waste, would indicate 


When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 


The omen of a cottage gate ; 


At the same time upheave and whelm, 


No twmkling taper from afar 


And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 


Stood like a hospitable star ; 


My undulatmg life was as 


Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 


The fancied lights that flitting pass 


To make him merry with my woes ' 


X 34 





■226 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tliat very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 

xyi. 

'♦ Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The droo,)ing courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me. 
His new-bom tameness nought avail'd, 
My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied— 

But still it was in vain ; 
iVIy limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolong'd their pain : 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done. 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Metliought that mist of dawning gray 
Would never dapple into day ; 
How heavily it roll'd away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And call'd the radiance from their cars. 
And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 

XVII. 

" Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around — behind — before: 
What booted it to traverse o'er 
Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
The very air was mute ; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst, 
The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh. 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my hps were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride; 
But where are they the reins to guide ? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
W\v\ flowing tail, and flying mane, 
Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 
N^ouths Oioodless to thf* bit or rein. 



And feet that iron never shod, 
And flanks unscan-'d by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free. 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 
The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh, 

He answer'd, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And reeking hmbs immoveable, 
His first and last career is done ! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong : 
They stop — they start — they snuft' »he air. 
Gallop a moment here and there. 
Approach, retire, wheel round an^^ round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed. 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
They snort — they foam— neigh — swerve is.ide. 
And backward to the forest fly. 
By instinct from a human eye — 

They left me there, to mj"^ despai"", 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose hfeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
Reheved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
And there from morn till twilight bound, 
I felt the hea%'y hours toil round, 
With just enough of life to see 
My last of suns go down on me, 
In hopeless certainty of mind. 
That makes us feel at length reslgn'd 
To that which our foreboding years 
Presents the worst and last of fears 
Inevitable — even a boon. 
Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
Yet shunn'd and dreaded witli such care. 
As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 
At times both wish'd for and implored. 
At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
Die calm, or calmer oft than ho 
Whose heritage was misery : 
For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new. 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to lea<e ; 
And, save the future (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good, 
But as their nerves may be endued), 

With nought perhaps to grieve* 



MAZEPPA. 



22' 



Tlie wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears to his distemper'd eyes 
Arrived to rob him of his prize, 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all, 
Ropaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ; 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or curst. 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 

xvni. 

* The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay ; 

And my dim eyes of death had need, 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky. 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly. 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit. 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 
But the slight motion of my hard, 
And feeble scratching of the sand. 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
And went and came with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense. 
And then subsiding back to death, 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense. 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain— 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 

XIX. 

"I woke — Where was I? — Do I see 

A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close ? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle glance ? 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 



The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
Even with my first return of thought ; 
For ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free : 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I hved, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast : 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd. 
She smiled— and I essay'd to speak. 

But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free ; 
And then her hand on mine she laid. 
And smooth'd the pillow for my head. 
And stole along on tiptoe tread. 
And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet 
Even music foUow'd her light feet ! 

But those she call'd were not awake, 
And she went forth ; but ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast. 

Another sign she made, to say,- 
That I had nought to fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call. 

And she would not delay 
Her due return ; — while she was gone, 
Methought 1 felt too much alone. 

XX. 

" She came with mother and with sire-* 
What need of more ? — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest, 
Since I became the Cossack's guest : 
They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut , 

His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne. — 

What mortal his own doom may guess ? 

Let none despond, let none despair ! 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our courser's graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there. 
Comrades, good night!" — The hetman threw 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch ab-ecdy made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter wnere : — 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steer*. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, - 

The king had been an hour asleeo. 



228 ^ 
A DRAMATIC POEM. 



" There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 



Witch of the Alps. 
Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, etc. 



The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps 
— partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the 
Mountains. 



MANFRED. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Gothic Gallery. — Time^ Midnight, 

Manfreb [alone). 
The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
[t will not burn so long as I must watch ; 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise : 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
Iklust mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth. 
The tree of knowledge is not that of life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself— 
But they avail not : I have done men good. 
And I have met with good even among men — 
But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
And /lone have baffled, many fallen before me — 
But this avail'd not : — good or evil, life. 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings. 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
Sincp. that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, 
Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
rvow to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Vfc spirits of the unbounded universe ! 
■Vhom I have sought in darkness and in light— 
Vii. who do compass earth about, and dwell 



In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 

Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things- 

I call upon ye by the written charm 

Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! appear ! 

[A paiiii 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign. 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
Who is undying, — rise ! appear ! — Appear ! 

[A pause. 
If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birth-place in a star condemn'd. 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gal 

lery; it is stationary; and a voice is heard 

singing.] 

first spirit. 
Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd. 
From my mansion in the cloud. 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion. 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden^ 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 
Mont-Blanc is the monarch of moimtains, 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, the thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass. 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst thou 7 
Voice of the Third Spirit 
In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strilo 





MANFRED. 22^j 


Wliere the wind is a stranger. 


FIRST SPIRIT. 


And the sea-snake hath hfe, 


Of what — of whom — and why ? 


Where the mermaid is decking 


MANFRED. 


Her green hair with shells ; 


Of that which is within me ; read it there — 


Like the storm en the surface 


Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 


Came the sound of thy spdls; 


SPIRIT. 


O'er my calm hall of coral 


We can but give thee that which we possess : 


The deep echo roU'd— 


Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 


To the Spirit of Ocean 


O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 


Thy wishes unfold ! 


Which shall control the elements, whereof 


FOtrRTH SPIRIT. 


We are the dominators — each and all. 


Where the slumbering earthquake 


These shall be thine. 


Lies pillow'd on fire, 


MANFRED. 


And the lakes of bitumen 


Oblivion, self-oblivion — 


Rise boilingly higher ; 


Can ye not viring from out the hidden realms 


Where the roots of the Andes 


Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 


Strike deep in the earth, 


SPIRIT. 


As their summits to heaven 


It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 


Shoot soaringly forth ; 


But— thou may'st die. 


I have quitted my birth-place, 


MANFRED. 


Thy bidding to bide — 


Will death bestow it on me 7 


Thy spell hath subdued me, 


SPIRIT. 


Thy will be my guide ! 


We are immortal, and do not forget : 


FIFTH SPIRIT. 


We are eternal ; and to us the past 


[ 'm the rider of the wind. 


Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 


The stirrer of the storm ; 


MANFRED. 


rhe hurricane I left behind 


Ye mock me — but the power which brought ye here 


Is yet with hghtning warm ; 


Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 


To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 


The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 


I swept upon the blast : 


The lightning of my being, is as bright. 


The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 


Pervading, and far darting as your own, 


'T will sink ere night be past. 


And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay! 


SIXTH SPIRIT. 


Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 


My dwelling is the shadow of the night. 


SPIRIT. 


Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 


We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 


SEVENTH SPIRIT. 


Is even in thine own words. 


The star which rules thy destiny. 


MANFRED. 


Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 


Why say ye so 7 


It was a world as fresh and fair 


SPIRIT. 


As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 


If, as thou say'at, thine essence be as ours. 


Its course was free and regular. 


We have replied in telling thee, the thing 


Space bosom'd not a loveher star. 


Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 


The hour arrived — and it became 


MANFRED. 


A wandering mass of shapeless flame. 


I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain , 


A pathless comet, and a curse, 


Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 


The menace of the universe ; 


SPIRIT. 


Still rolling on with innate force. 


Say; 


Without a sphere, without a course, 


What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 


A bright deformity on high, 


Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 


The monster of the upper sky ! 


Kmgdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days— 


And thou ! beneath its influence bom— 


MANFRED. 


Thou, worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 


Accursed ! what have, I to do with days ? 


Forced by a power (which is not thine, 


They are too long already.— Hence— begone ! 


And lent thee but to make thee mine) 


SPIRIT. 


For this brief moment to descend, 


Yet pause : being here, our will v^ould do thee ser?ic« ' 


j Where these weak spb-its round thee bend, 


Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 


And partly with a thing like thee— 


Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 


What wouldst thou, child of clay, with me ? 


MANFRED. 


THE SEVEN SPIRITS. 


No, none : yet stay— one moment, ere we part- 


Earth., ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 


I would behold ye face to face. I hear 


Are at thy beck and bidding, child of clay ! 


Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 


Before thee, at thy quest, their spirits are— 


As music on the waters ; and I see 


What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals— say? 


The steady aspect of a clear large star , 


MANFRED. 


But nothing more. Approach me as ye are. 


Forgetfuhiess 

X2 


Or one, or aJ, in your accustora'd forms. 



-J 30 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SPIRIT. 

Wc have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we arc the mind and principle : 
But choose a form— in that we will appear. 

MANFRED. 

I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him ^nay seem most fitting — Come ! 

SEVENTH SPIRIT. 

{Apvearing in the shape of a beautiful female fgure), 

Behold ! 

MANFRED. 

Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 

Art not a madness and a mockery, 

I yet might be most happy. — I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be [The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless. 
{A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows). 

When the moon is on the wave, 
And the glow-worm in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave, 
And the wisp on the morass ; 

When the falhng stars are shooting, 

And the answcr'd owls are hooting, 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow of the hill, 

Shall my soul be upon thine. 

With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 

Bv a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone ; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud. 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 

And for ever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 

Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 

As a thing that, though unseen, 

Must be near thee, and hath been ; 

And when in that secret dread 

Thou hast turn'd around thy head ; 

Thou shalt marvel I am not 

As thy shadow on the spot, 

And the power which thou dost feel 

Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And z. magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee %vith a curse ; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 

And to fnee shall Night deny 

All the quiet of her sky ; 

And the day shall have a sun. 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distu 

An essence which hath strength to kill : 

From tliy own heart I then did vmng 

The black Wood in its Waskest spring ; 



From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile. 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, — 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art. 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 

By thy delight in others' pain. 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die. 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee. 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 



SCENE n. 

Trie Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, Mommg,~- 

Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. 

MANFRED. 

The spirits I have raised abandon me — 

The spells which I have studied baffle me — 

The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 

I lean no more on super-human aid. 

It hath no power upon the past, and for 

The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness, 

It is not of my search. — My mother earth! 

And thou, fresh breaking day, and you, ye mountams 

Why are j^e beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 

And thou, the bright eye of the universe. 

That openest over all, and unto all 

Art a delight — thou shinest not on my heart. 

And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 

I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 

Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 

In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 

A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 

My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 

To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause? 

I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 

I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 

And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 

There is a power upon me which withholds 

And makes it my fatality to live ; 

If it be life to wear within myself 

This barrenness of spirit, and to be 

My ov\Ti soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 

To justify my deeds unto myself— 

The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle pcttM*, 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may'st thou swoop so near nie — I shoiila be 



MANFRED. 



23 1 



Thy prcy, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 

Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 

Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 

With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 

How beautiful is all this visible world ! 

How glorious in its action and itself! 

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 

To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 

A conflict of its elements, and breathe 

The breath of degradation and of pride. 

Contending with low wants and lofty will 

Till our mortality predominates. 

And men are — what thej' name not to themselves, 

And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjo5Tnent — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Even so, 
This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here ? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at tliis distance. — 
I will approach him nearer. 

MANFRED {not perceiving the Other). 
To be thus— 
Gray-hair'd wath anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
W^hich but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years ; 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
iTe avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mouiitainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 
i hear ye mouiently above, beneath. 
Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 
And only fall on things tliat still would live ; 
On the j'oung flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
I '11 warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

MANFRED. 

The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
xjike foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd vdth the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 



CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

MANFRED. 

JMoantains have fallen, 
Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filUng up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinfei s, 
Daii.ming the rivers with a sudden dash. 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus. 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenburg— 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Friend ! have a care, 
Your next step may be fatal I — for the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 

MANFRED {not hearing him). 
Such would have been for me a fitting tomb ; 
IMy bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus thev shall be- • 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ' 
[As Manfred is in act to spring from the clijf, 
the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains ki/n 
with a sudden grasp.'\ 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Hold, madman I — though aweary of thy life. 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood. — 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

MANFRED. 

I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 

I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me — I grow blind. — What art thou ? 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

I '11 answer that anon, — Away with me — 

The clouds grow thicker — there — now lean on me — 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff", and cling 

A moment to that shrub — now give me 5'our hand. 

And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 

The Chalet will be gain'd wirhin an hour — 

Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing. 

And something like a pathway, which the torrent 

Hath wash'd since winter — Come, 'tis bravely dont, — 

You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[As they descend the rocks xdth difficulty, t\* 
scene closes.] 



ACT II. 

SCENE L 

A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 
Manfred and the Chamois Huntep. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go fortn 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide- 
But whither? 

MANFRED. 

It imports not : I do know 
My route full well, and need no further guidance 



0.32 



BYRON'S WORKS 



CHAMOIS HUNTEIl. 

Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high hneage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
INIay call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
1 : bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths. 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

MANFRED. 

No matter. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Well, sir, pardon me the question, 
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine j 
'T is of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 

MANFRED. 

Away, away ! there 's blood upon the brim ! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

What dost thou mean ? thy senses wander from thee. 

MANFRED. 

[ say 't is blood — my blood ! the pure v/arm stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed : but still it rises up. 
Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Man of strange words, and some half-maddening sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there 's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

MANFRED. 

Patience, and patience ! Hence — that word was made 
For brutes of burthen, nor for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine — 
I am not of thine order. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Thanks to Heaven ! 
I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
ft must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

MANFRED. 

Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

rhis is convulsion, and no healthful Ufe. 

MANFREI;. 

I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 

Many long years, but they are nothing now 

To those which I must number ; ages — ages — 

Space and eternity — and consciousness, 

With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; 1 am thine elder far. 

MANFRED. 

Think'st thou existence doth depend oit time ? 
It dotli . but actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endleas, and all alike as sands on the shore, 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
V-— on And cold, on which the wild waves break, 



But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not leave him. 

MANFRED. 

I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

What Ls it 
That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ) 

MANFRED. 

Myself and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 

Thy humble virtues, hospitable home. 

And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; 

Thy self-respect, graled on innocent thoughts ; 

Thy days of health, aud nights of sleep ; thy toils, 

By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 

Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 

With cross and garland over its green turf. 

And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph : 

This do I see — and then I look within — 

It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine ? 

MANFRED. 

No, friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream. 
But perish in their slumber. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

And with this — 
This cautious feeling for another's pain. 
Canst thou be black with evil? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

MANFRED. 

Oh ! no, no, no ! 
My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

CHAMOIS HUNTER. 

Heaven give thee rest ! 
And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

V4NFRED. 

I need them not. 
But can endure thy pitj'. I depart — 
'T is time — farewell ! Here 's gold, and thanks for the»- 
No words — it i« thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril's past : — 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

[Exit Manftiep. 

SCENE II. 
A lower Valley in the Alps — A Cataract. 
Enter Manfred. 
It is not noon — the sunbow's rays ' still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling its lines of foaming light along 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tai., 
The giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocal3q5se. No eves 



MANFRED, 



23^ 



But mint now drink this sight of loveliness ; 

I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 

And with the spirit of the place divide 

The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of the water into the 
palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, 
muttering the adjuration. After a pause, 
tJie Witch of the Alps rises beneath the 
arch of the sunbeam of the torrent. 

MANFRED. 

Beautiful spirit ! with thy hair of light, 

And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 

The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 

To an unearthly stature, in an essence 

Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 

Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 

Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 

Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 

Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 

The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, — 

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 

The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 

Beautiful spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 

W herein is glass'd serenity of soul. 

Which of itself shows immortality, 

I read that thou wilt pardon to a son 

Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 

At times to commune with them — if that he 

Avail him of his spells— to call thee thus, 

And gaze on thee a moment. 

WITCH. 

Son of earth ! 
I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me ? 

MANFRED. 

To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge m her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

WITCH. 

What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

MANFRED. 

A boon ; 
But why should I repeat it? 't were in vain. 

WITCH. 

I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 

MANFRED. 

Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same; 

My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 

My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 

Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes, 

The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 

The aim of their existence was not mine ; 

My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 

Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 

I h9d no sympathy with breathing flesh. 

Nor 'midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Wa« there but one who but of her anon. 

35 



I said, with men, and with the thoughts of mer, 

I held but slight communion : but instead. 

My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 

The difBcult air of the iced mountain's top, 

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 

Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 

Into the torrent, and to roll along 

On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 

Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 

In these my early strength exulted ; or 

To follow through the night the moving moon. 

The stars and their developement ; or catch 

The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 

Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves. 

While autumn winds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 

Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 

I felt myself degraded back to them, 

And was all clay again. And then I dived, 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up du« 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then 1 pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught, 

Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air. 

And spirits that do compass air and earth, 

Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with eternity. 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros,^ at Gadara, 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright inteUigence, until 

WITCH. 

Proceed. 

MANFRSD. 

Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words. 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief— 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being. 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties , 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

WITCH. 

Spare not thyself— procecvi. 

MANFRED. 

She was like me in lineaments— her eyes. 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said, were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty ; 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings. 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, l.ut with them gentler powers than mine, 
Pity, and smiles, and tears— which I had not : 
And tenderness— but that I had for her ; 
Humjlity — and that I never nad. 
Her faults were mine— her virtues were her own- 
I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 

WITCH. 

With thv hand ' 



?:M 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



MANFRED. 

Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and withcr'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed— • 
I j-aw — and cculd not stanch it. 

WITCH. 

And for this — 
A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great kno\> ledge, and slirink'st back 
To recreant mortality Away ! 

MANFRED. 

Daughter of Air ! I ell thee, since that hour— 

But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 

Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me! 

My solitude is solitude no more. 

Rut peopled with the Furies. — I have gnash'd 

My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 

Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 

For madness as a blessing — 't is denied me. 

I liave affronted death — but in the war 

or elements the waters shrunk from me, 

Ar.d latal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 

Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 

Back by a single hair, which would not break. 

In phantasy, imagination, all 

The affluence of my soul — which one day was 

A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 

But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 

Into the gulf of my unfalhom'd thought. 

I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 

I sought in all, save where 't is to be found, 

And that I have to learn — my sciences, 

INIy long-pursued and super-human art, 

Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair— 

And hve — and live for ever. 

WITCH. 

It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

MANFRED. 

To do this thy power 
Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so- -in any shape — in any hour— 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

WITCH. 

That is not m my province ; but if thou 
Wiit swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

MANFRED. 

I will not swear. — Obey! and whom? the spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

WITCH. 

Is this all ? 
Has! thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
\iid pause ere thou rejectest. 

MANFRED. 

I have said it. 

WITCH. 

Flniyiigh! — 1 mav retire then — say! 

MANFRED. 

Retire ! 
[The Witch disappears. 
MANFRED {alone). 
We are me fools of time and terror: days j 



Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathmg our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart. 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with tin. 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be ; 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hac 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadjan Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd.^ 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart , 
But I can act even what I most abhor. 
And champion human fears. — The night approaclies. 

[Exit 

SCENE III. 

Hie Summit of the Jungfrau ISIountnin. 
Enter First Destiny. 
The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; 
And here on snows, where never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightlv tread, 
And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice. 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 
Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image ; 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 
The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — 't is strange they come mA, 
A voice without, singing. 
The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor, 
Fornotten suid lone ; 



MANFRED. 



235 



I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He 's tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he '11 answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction — his (light and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
iR'it I saved him to wreak further havoc for me! 
First Destinv, answering. 
The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it. 
May dawn on it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly. 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish— 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish, 
And evil and dread. 

Envelop a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation.— 
This work of a night, 
Phis wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing— 
for ages I 've done, and shall still be renewing ! 
Enter the Second and Thikd Destinies. 
The Three. 
Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves ; 
We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves ! 

FIRST DESTINV. 

Welcome ! — Where 's Nemesis ? 

SECOND DESTINV. 

At some great work ; 
But what I know not, for my hands were full. 

THIRD DESTINV. 

Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

FIRST DESTINV. 

Say, where hast thou been? 
My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

NEMESIS. 

I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 

Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 

Avenging men upon their enemies. 

And making them repent their own revenge ; 

♦■loading the wise to madness ; from the dull 

Shaping out oracles to rule the world 

Afresh, for thoy were waxing out of date, 

And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 

i'o weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 

Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away! 

We have outstaid the hour — mount we our clouds ! 

{^Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his throne, o 

Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 
Hymn of the Spirits. 
Hail to our master ! — Prince of earth and air ! — 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asundor< 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him war offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him death pays his tribute ; hfe is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

FIRST DESTINV. 

(Jlory to Arimanes ! on the earth 

His power increaseth — both my sisters did 

His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

SECOND DESTINV. 

Glor) to Arimanes ! we who bow 

The necks of men, bow down before his throne ' 

THIRD DESTINV. 

Glory to Arimanes ! — we await his nod ! 

NEMESIS. 

Sovereign of sovereigns ! we are thine, 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfilled to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 

A SPIRIT. 

What is here? 
A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch. 
Bow down and worship ! 

SECOND SPIRIT. 

I do know the man— 
A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 

THIRD SPIRIT. 

Bow down and worship, slave I — 

What, know'st thou nw 
Thine and our sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey ! 

ALL THE SPIRITS. 

Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay. 
Child of the Earth ' or dread the worst. 

MANFRED. 

I know u , 
And yet ye see I kneel not. 

FOURTH SPIRIT. 

'T will be taught thee, 

MANFRED. 

'T is taught already ; — many a night on the eartli, 

On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face. 

And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 

The fulness of humiliation, for 

I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 

To my own desolation. 



^36 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Fit PH SPIRIT. 


Which still doth inherit 


Dost thou dare 


The whole or a part 


Refuse to Arirnanes on his throne 


Of the form of thy birth, 


What the whole earth accords, beholding not 


Of the mould of thy clay, 


The terror of his glory?— Crouch ! I say. 


Which return'd to the earth, — 


MANFRED. 


Re-appear to the day ! 


Bid him bow down to that which is above him, — 


Bear what thou borest. 


The overruling Infinite — the Maker 


The heart and the form, 


Wiio made him not for worship — let him kneel, 


And the aspect thou worest 


And we will kneel together. 


Redeem from the worm. 


THE SPIRITS. 


Appear ! — appear ! — appear ! 


Crush the worm! 


Who sent thee there requires thee here ' 


Tear him in pieces !— 


[The phantom of Astarte riftes rawd 
stands in the midst. 


FIRST DESTINY. 


MANFRED. 


Hence ! Avaunt ! he 's mine, 


Can this be death? there 's bloom upon her cheek ! 


Prince of the powers invisible ! this man 


But now I see it is no living hue, 


Is of no common order, as his port 


But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf 


And presence here denote : his sufferings 


Have been of an immortal nature, like 


It is the same ! Oh God ! that I should dread 


Our own ; his knowledge and his power and will, 


To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 


As far as is compatible with clay, 


I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 


Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 


As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 


NEMESIS. 


Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 


By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall'd thee, 


And they have only taught him what we know — 


That knowledge is not happiness, and science 


Speak to him who hath spoken, 


But an exchange of ignorance for that 


Or those who have call'd thee ! 


Which is another kind of ignorance. 


MANFRED. 


This is not all — the passions, attributes 


She is silent, 


Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 


And in that silence I am more than answer'd 


Nor breath, from the worm upwards, is exempt. 


NEMESIS. 


Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 


My power extends no further. Prince A &• 


Made him a thing which I, who pity not. 


It rests with thee alone — command h'.r ( o* 


Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine. 


ARIMANES. 


And thine, it may be— be it so, or not, 


Spirit ! obey this sceptre ! 


No other spirit in this region hath 


NEMESIS. 


A soul like his— or power upon his soul. 


SiLt.* snll ' 


NEMESIS. 


She is not of our order, but IjC.c .i^s 


What doth he here then? 


To the other jiowers. Mortil i A / quest is v«» 


FIRST DESTINY. 


And we are baffled also. 


Let him answer that. 


MJ /TI.ED. 


MANFRED. 


Hear me, hear me — 


Ye know what I have known ; and without power 


Astarte ! my beloveo .' jpeak to me : 


I could not be amongst ye : but there are 


I have so much enjur^.d — so much endure — 


Powers deeper still beyond— I come in quest 


Look on me ! tho ^r<ive hath not chaiiged thee n* 


Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 


Than I am cht.njjeJ for thee. Thou lovedsi me 


NEMESIS. 


Too much, S.A 1 1 jved thee : we were not made 


What wouldst thou? 


To torture .hds each other, though it were 


MANFRED. 


The deatiijst sin to love as we have loved. 


Thou canst not reply to me. 


Say thi^ thou loathest me not — that I do bear 


*'all up the dead— my question is for them. 


This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 


NEMESIS. 


Oft. ri the blessed— and that I shall die ; 


Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 


F ,t hitherto all hateful things consi>ire 


The wishes of this mortal ? 


'I'o bind me in existence — in a life 




Whic'i. makes me shrink from immortality — 


ARIMANES. 

Yea. 


A future like the past. I cannot rest. 


I know not what I ask nor what I seek : 


NEMESIS. 

Whom vvould^ t». 


I feel but what thou art— and what I am ; 


Unchumel? 


And I would hear yet once before I perish 


MANFRED. 


The voice which was my music — Speak to me 


One without a tomb— call up 


For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 


Astartf. 


Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd br-igha, 


NEMESIS. 


And woke the mountain wolves, and made the i.aves 


Shadow ! or Spirit ! 


Acquainted with thy vainly-echoed name, 


Whatever thou art. 


Which answer'd me — many thinjis answer'tJ me — 

!j 



MANFRED. 237 


Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 


MANFRED. 


Vet speak to me ' I have outvvatch'd the stars, 


Say. 


And gazed o'er he.;- ven in vain in search of thee. 


Are all things so disposed of in the tower 


Speak to me ! 1 have vi'ander'd o'er the earth 


As 1 directed ? 


And never found thy likeness— Speak to me! 


HERMAN. 


Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 


All, my lord, are ready , 


I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 


Here is the key and casket. 


S|)eak to me ! though it be in wrath ;— but say— 


MANFRED. 


I reck not what— but let me hear thee once — 


It is weU : 


This once — once more ! 


Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herm a» 


PHANTOM OF ASTARTE. 


MANFRED {alone). 


Manfred ! 


There is a calm upon me— 


MANFRED. 


Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 


Say on, say on— 
[ live but m the sound — it is thy voice ! 

PHANTOM. 

Manfred! to-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
Karewell ! 


Did not belong to what I knew of hfe. 
If that I did not know philosophy 


To be of all our vanities the niotliest. 


The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 


MANFRED. 


The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 


Yet one word more— am I forgiven ? 


And seated m my soul. It will not last. 


PHANTOM. 


But it is well to have known it, though but once : 


f-arewell! 


It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense. 


MANFRED. 


And I within my tablets would note down 


Say, shall we meet again? 


That there is such a feeling. Who is there? 


PHANTOM. 


Re-enter Herman. 


FareweU! 


HERMAN. 


MANFRED. 


My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 


One word for mercy ! say, thou lovest me. 


To greet your presence. 


PHANTOM. 


Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 


Manfred! 


ABBOT. 


[The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 


Peace be with Count Manfred . 


NEMESIS. 


MANFRED. 


She 's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 


Thanks, holy father ! wehome to these walls ; 


Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 


Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 


A SPIRIT. 


Who dwell within them. 


He is convulsed.— This is to be a mortal, 


ABBOT. 


And seek the things beyond mortality. 


Would it were so. Count ••. 


ANOTHER SPIRIT. 


But I would fain confer with thee alone. 


Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes 


MANFRED. 


His torture tributary to his will. 


Herman, retire. What would my reverend guest ? 


Had he been one of us, he would have made 


ABBOT. 


An awful spirit. 


Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my office, 


NEMESIS. 


And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 


Hast thou further question 


Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, 


Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 


May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 


MANFRED. 


And of unholy nature, are abroad. 


None. 


And busy with thy name ; a noble name 


NEMESIS. 

Then for a time farewell. 


For centuries ; may he who bears it now 


MANFRED. 


Transmit it unimpair'd ! 


SVe meet then ! Where ? On the earth ?— 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 


MANFRED. 

Proceed, — I listen. 

ABBOT. 


now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 


'T is said thou boldest converse with the things 


[Exit Manfred. 
{Scene closes.) 


Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 


That with the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 




ACT III. 


Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 


SCENE I. 


Thou communest, I know that with mankind, 


Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 


A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 


Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 


Manfred and Herman. 


Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 


MANFRED. 


MANFRED 


Vhatis thehour? 


And what are they who do avouch these thin^'n ' 


HERMAN. 


ABBOr. 


It wants but one till sunset, 


My pious brethren— the scared peasantry 


Vnd promises a lovely twilight. 
Y 


Even thy own vassals — who do look or i lee 



a.^8 



BYRON S WORKS. 



With most unquiet eyes. Thy hfe's in peril. 

MANFRED. 

Take it. 

ABBOT. 

I come to save, and not destroy — 
1 would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the iTL'B church, and through the churcti to Heaven. 

MANFRED. 

I hear thee. This is my reply ; wliate'er 

I may havt been, or am, doth rest between 

Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 

To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 

Against your ordinances I prove and punish ! 

ABBOT. 

My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 

But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 

The choice of such remains — and for the last, 

Our institutions and our strong belief 

Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 

To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 

I leave to Heaven — "Vengeance is mine alone!" 

So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 

His servant echoes back the awful word. 

MANFRED. 

O.'d man ! there is no power in holy men, 

Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 

Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast— 

Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 

The innate tortures of that deep despair 

Which is remorse without the fear of bell, 

Bui all in all sufficient to itself 

Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 

From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 

Of fs owTi sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 

I /pan itself; there is no future pang 

Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 

He deals on his own soul. 

ABBOT. 

All this is well j 
For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which ail who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 

MANFRED. 

When Rome's sixth Emperor was near his last, 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound. 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
W^ith show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gusiiing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
"It is too late — is this fidelity?" 

ABBOT. 

And wnat of this? 

MANFRED. 

1 answer with the Roman — 
• It i.-; loo Vrtte !' 



ABBOT. 

It never can be so, 
To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast tliou no hope ' 
'Tis strange — even those who do despair above. 
Vet shape themselves some phar.tasy on earth. 
To which frail twig they chng, like drowning men. 

MANFRED. 

Ay — father! I have had tliose earthly visions 

And noble aspirations in my youth. 

To make my own the mind of other men, 

The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 

I knew not whither — it might be to fall ; 

But fail, even as the mountain cataract, 

Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 

Even in the foaming strength of its abyss 

(Which casts up misty columns that become 

Clouds, raining from the reascended skies). 

Lies low but mighty still. — Bui this is past. 

My thoughts mistook themselves. 

ABBOT. 

And wherefore so ? 

MANFRED. 

I could not tame my nature down ; for he 

Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe — and sue 

And watch all time — and pry into all place — 

And be a living lie — who would become 

A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 

The mass are : I disdain'd to mingle with 

A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 

The hon is alone, and so am I. 

ABBOT. 

And why not hve and act with other men? 

MANFRED. 

Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind, 
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought. 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

ABBOT. 

Alas! 
I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

MANFRED. 

Look on me ! there is an order 
Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth and die ere middle age. 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Some of disease — and some insanity — 
And some of withcr'd or of broken hearts ; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fat-, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names, 
Look upon me I for even of all these things, 
Have I [)artaken; and of all these things, 
One were enough : then wonder noi that \ 



MANFRED. 



231^ 



Am what 1 am, but that I ever was, 
Or, having been, that I am still on earth. 

ABBOT. 

Yet, hear me still 

MANFRED. 

Old man ! I do respect 
Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vam : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

[Exit Manfred. 

ABBOT. 

This should have been a noble creature : he 

Hath all the energy which would have made 

A Hoodly frame of gloriotis elements, 

Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 

It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 

And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 

Mix'd and contending without end or order, 

All dormant or destructive : he will perish. 

And yet he must not ; I will try once more. 

For such are v.'orth redemption ; and my duty 

Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 

I 'II follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot. 



SCENE II 

Another Chamber. 
Manfred and Herman. 

HERMAN. 

My Lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

MANFRED. 

Doth he so? 
will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the viindow of the Hall. 
Glorious orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of tindiseased mankind, the giant sons* 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return — 
Most glorious orb! that wort a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd .' 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, ihe hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material god ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest tlie hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays! 
Sire of the seasons ! IVTonarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise. 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
[ ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of lOve and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
»">i a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow [Exit Manfred. 



SCENE III. 

The MountainR — The Castle of Manfred at !i<yme <ht 

tance — A Terrace before a Tower.- -Time, Twili'^ld. 

Herman, JNIanuel, and other dependantJt u 

Manfred. 

HERMAN. 

'T is strange enough : night after night, for years. 

He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 

Without a witness. I have been within it, — 

So have we all been oft-times : but from it, 

Or its contents, it were impossible 

To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 

His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 

One chamber where none enter ; I would give 

The fee of what I have to come these three years, 

To pore upon its mysteries. 

MANUEL. 

'T v.'ere dangerous ; 
Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

HERMAN. 

Ah ! INIanuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 

And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the cat uo- 

How many j'ears is 't ? 

MANUEL. 

Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

HERMAN. 

There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ? 

MANUEL. 

I speak not 
Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free. — 
A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk tlie rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

HERMAN. 

Beshrew the hour, 
But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten tlem. 

MANUEL. 

These walls 
Must change their chieftain first. Oh I 1 have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

HERMAN. 

Come, be frienuv 
Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

MANUEL. 

That was a night indeed ; I do remember 

'Twas twilight as it may be now, and such 

Another evening : — yon red cloud, which rests 

On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested tnen, — 

So like that it might be the same : the wind 

Was faint and gusty, and the nuAintain snows 

Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 

Coimt Manfred was, as now, within his tower — 

How occupied, we kn w not, but with him 

The sole companion of his wandering? 

And watchings — her, whom of tl) oarthly thrns* 



T'at li>t;cl, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
A^• he, iddeed, by blood was bound to do, 

The lady Aslarte, hjs 

Hush! who comes here? 
Enter tlie Abbot. 

ABBOT. 

Where is your master? 

HERMAX. 

Yonder, in the tower. 

ABBOT. 

f mus* speak with him. 

Manuel. 
'Tis impossible; 
He IS most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

ABBOT. 

Upon myself I take 
The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
Hut I must see him. 

HERM.AS. 

Thou hast seen him once 
Tins eve already. 

ABBOT. 

Herman ! I command thee, 
Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

HERMAN, 

\Vp dare not. 

ABBOT. 

Then it seems I must be herald 
Of my own purpose. 

MANUEL. 

Reverend father, stop— 
I pray you pause. 

ABBOT. 

Why so? 

MANUEL. 

But step this way, 
Ana I will tell you further. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

Interior of the Tower, 

Manp'red, alone. 

MANFRED. 

Tlie stars are forth, the moon above the tops 

Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 

I linger yet with Nature, for the night 

I lath been to me a more familiar face 

Ilian that of man ; and in her starry shade 

I )t dim and soUtar}* loveliness, 

I l»'arn'd the language of another world. 

1 .lo remember me, that in my youth. 

When I was wandering,-— upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall 

'Atidst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 

The trees which grew along the broken arches 

Waved dark in the blue rmdnisht, and the stars 

Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The %\Htch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and 

More near from out the Caesar's palace came 

The ov.Ts long cry, and, mterruptedly, 

t)f distant sentinels the fitful song 

r^Lgun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some Impresses beyond the time-worn breach 

Appear'd lo <:iurl rjie horizon, vet thev stood 



Within a bow-shot — where the Cajsars dwelt. 

And dwell the timeless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battif jrenis 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 

But the gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 

A noble ^^Teck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, emd cast a wide and tender light. 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries: 

Lea\ing that beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. — 

'T was such a night ! 
'T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

ABBOT. 

INIy good lord ! 
I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abrupmess — a.1 it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say hecm — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I shoa'd 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd j 
But is not yet all lost. 

MANFRED. 

Thou know'st me not: 
My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded . 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 

ABBOT. 

Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

MANFRED. 

Not I ; 
I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

ABBOT. 

What dost mean ? 

MANFRED. 

Look there 
What dost thou see ? 

ABBOT. 

Nothing. 

MANFRED. 

Look there, I saj, 
And stedfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest ? 

ABBOT. 

That which should shake me, — but I fear it not — 

I see a dusk and awful figure rise 

Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 

His face WTapt in a mantle, and his form 

Robed as with angr\' clouds ; he stands betwe^-u 

Thyself and mo — but I do fear him not. 

MANFRED. 

Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — tni 
His sight may shock thine ' M limbs uno oaJfv. 
1 say to thee — Retire ' 





MANFRED. ^\ i 


ABBOT. 


MANFRED. 


And I reply — 


Thou false fiend, thou lies*. 


iVever— till I have battled with this fiend— 


My life IS in its last hour, — f.hat I know. 


What doth he here ? 


Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 


MANFRED. 


I do not combat against deaih, but thee 


Why— ay— what doth he here? 


And thy surrounding angels: my past power 


I did not send for him,— he is unbidden. 


Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 


ABBOT. 


But by superior science — penance — daring — 


Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like these 


And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 


Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake. 


In knowledge of our fathers— when the earth 


Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 


Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 


Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 


And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 


The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 


Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 


Glares forth the immortality of hell — 


Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 


Avaunt! 


SPIRIT. 


MANFREI, 


But thy many crimes 


Pronounce— what is thy mission ? 


Have made thee 


SPIRIT. 


MANFRED, 


Come! 


What are they to such as thee '< 


ABBOT. 


Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 


What art thou, unknown being ? answer ! — speak ! 


And greater criminals ?— Back to thy hell • 


SPIRIT. 


Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 


The genius of this mortal.—Come ! 'tis time. 


Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 


MANFRED. 


What I have done is done ; I bear witliin 


am prepared tor all things, but deny 


A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 


The power which summons me. Who sent thee here ? 


The mind which is immortal makes itself 


SPIRIT. 


Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 


Thou 'It know anon— Come ! come ! 


Is its own origin of ill and end — 


MANFRED. 


And its own place and time — its innate sense, 


I have commanded 


When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 


Things of an essence greater far than thine. 


No colour from the fleeting things without ; 


And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 


But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy. 


SPIRIT. 


Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 


Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! I say. 


Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me* 


MANFRED. 


I have not been thy dupe, noi am thy prey — 


I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 


But was my own destroyer, and will be 


To render up my soul to such as thee : 


My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends! 


Away! I'll die as I have hved — alone. 


The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 


SPIRIT. 


[The Demons dtsappeca 


Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise ! 


ABBOT. 


[Other Spirits rise uj 


Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white — 


ABBOT. 


And thy breast heaves— and in thy gasping throat 


Avaunt! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt ! I say, — 


The accents rattle.— Give thy prayers to Heaven- 


Ve have no power where piety hath power, 


Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 


And I do charge ye in the name 


MANFRED. 


SPIRIT. 


'T is over— my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 


Old man . 


But all things swim around me, and the earth 


We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 


Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 


Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. 


Give me thy hand. 


It were in vain ; this man is forfeited. 


ABBOT. 


Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 


Cold— cold— even to the heart- 


MANFRED. 


But yet one prayer — alas ! how fares it with thee 7 — 


I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 


MANFRED. 


Is ebbing from me, j^ct I do defy ye ; 


Old man ! 't is not so difficult to die. 


Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 


[Manfred expim* 


To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 


ABBOT. 


To wrestle, though with spirits j what ye take 


He 's gone — his soul hath ta'en its earthless flighi- 


r^hall be ta'en limb by limb. 

SPIRIT. 


Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone. 




Reluctant mortal ! 


NOTES. 


IS -hi5 me Magian who would so pervade 
['he world invisible, and make himself 




Note 1. Page 232, lines 114 and 115. 


Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 




Art thus in love with life ? the very life 


The torrent with die many hues «>«" heaven. 


Which made thee wretched ! 


This Iris is formed by the rays of the rii over in» 


I » 36 




^ — . . 





242 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ower pai( of (ho Alpine torrents : if is exactly like a 
1 ainbow, comr down to pay a visit, and so close that 
yon may walk into it : — this effect lasts till noon. 

Note 2. Page 233, lines 100 and 101. 
He who from out their fountain dwelliugs raised 
Eros :ii)(J Anteros, at Gadara. 

The philosopher lamblicus. The story of the raising 
cf Eros and Anteros may be found in his life, by 
Eunapius. It is well told. 

Note 3. Pase 234, lines 91 and 92. 



-she replied 



In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd. 
The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who com- 
manded the Greeks at the battle of Piatea, and after- 



wards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacedfr- 
monians), and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life ot 
Cimon ; and in the Laconics of Pausanias the Sophist, 
in bis description of Greece. 

Note 4. Page 239, lines 39 and 40. 



-the giant sons 



Of the embrace of angels. 

" That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men 
that tliey were fair," etc. 

"There were giants in the earth in those days; and 
also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto 
the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, 
the same became mighty men which were of old, men 
of renown." — Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4. 



i^ariiio iFalCeto, 33oae of Wtnitt; 

A HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



PREFACE. 



The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of 
the most remarkable events in the annals of the most 
singular government, city, and people of modern his- 
tory. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about 
V enice is, or was, extpaordinary — her aspect is like a 
dream,, and her history is like a romance. The story 
of this Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and 
tiarticu'arly detailed in the " Lives of the Doges," by 
Mann Sanito, which is given in the Appendix. It is 
simpl_ ii'ii ;learly related, and is, perhaps, more dra- 
matic in itself than any scenes which can be founded 
•j)»oi. the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of tal- 
ents and of courage. I find him commander-in-chief 
cf the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat 
tlie Kins "f Hungary and his army of eighty thousand 
men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the be- 
sieged at the same time in check, an exploit to which 
I know none similar in history, except that of Caesar 
at Elesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was 
afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. 
He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa 
and Rome, at which last he received the news of his 
election to the dukedom ; his absence being a proof , 
that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprized | 
of his predecessor's death and his own succession at | 
the same moment. But he appears to have been of| 
an unirovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, | 
of his hav n2, many years before, when podesta and 
cantain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who 
•vas somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this 
honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," as 
Thwackum did Square ; but he does not tell us whether 
h«- was punished or rebuked by the senate for this 
outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, in- 
aeed, to have been afterwards at peace with the church, 
fni we find him ambassador at Uome, and invested 
*ifh the fief of Val di Marino, in the March of Tre- 
•iso. and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo Count- 
Bisnop of CeneJa. For these facts my authorities are, 



Sanuto, "S'ettor Sandi, AndreaNavagero, and the account 
of the siege of Zara, first pubUshed by the indefatigable 
Abbate Morelli, in his "Monument! Veneziani di varia 
letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have looked 
over in the original language. The moderns, Daru, 
Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree wuh the ancient 
chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his 
jealousy; but I find this nowhere asserted by the na- 
tional historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that "Altn 

scrissero che dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge 

siasifatto (Michel Steno) staccarcon violenza," etc., etc.; 
but this appears to have been by no means the general 
opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Nava- 
gero; and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that 
" per altre Yeneziane memorie Iraspiri, che non il solo 
desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alia congiura ma anchs 
la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelava a farsi 
principe mdependente." The first motive a|)pears to 
have been excited b}' the gross affront of the words 
written by Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by 
the lisht and inadequate sentence of the Forty on the 
offender, who was one of their "tre capi." The at- 
tentions of Steno himself appear to have been directed 
towards one of her damsels, and not to tlie " Doga- 
ressa" herself, against whose fame not the sligiitest 
insinuation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, 
and remarked for her youth. Neither do I find it 
asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion) that 
the Doge was actuated by jealousy of his wife ; but 
rather by respect for her, and for his own honour, 
warranted bj' his past services and present dignity. 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to 
in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his view of Italy. 
His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests 
about old men and young wives, and wondering at so 
great an eflfect from so slight a cause. How so acute 
3Jid severe an observer of mankind as the au^httr of 
Zeluco could wonder at this is imonceivable. He knew 
that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Mashani's gow n de- 
prived the Duke of Malborough of his commanii, and 
led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht — thai Louis XIV. 
was plunaed into the most desolating wars bc-anso 
his minister was nettled at liis finding fault wilu a 



MARINO FALIERO. 



945 



cvindo-vf, and wished to give Inm another occupation — 
that Heler lost Troy — that Lucretia expelled the Tar- 
quins from Rome — and that Cava brought the Moors to 
Spain — that an insulted husband led the Gauls to Clu- 
sium, and thence to Rome — that a single verse of Fred- 
eric II. of Prussia, on the Abbe de Bernis, and a jest 
on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Ros- 
bach — that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with Mac 
Murchad, conducted the English to the slavery of Ire- 
land — that a personal pique between Marie Antoinette 
and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion 
of the Bourbons — and, not to multipU' instances, that 
Commodus, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims, not to 
their public tyrannv, but to private vengeance — and that 
an order to make Cromwell disembark from the ship in 
which he would have sailed to America, destroyed both 
king and commonwealth. After these instances, on the 
least reflection, it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore 
to seem surprised that a man, used to command, who 
had scr^'ed and swayed in the most important offices, 
should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished 
affront, the grossest that can be offered to a man, be he 
prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is Uttle to the 
purpose, unless to favour it. 

" The young man's wrath is like straw on fire. 
But like red-hot steel is the old inan's ire." 
" Young men soon give and soon forget aflTronts, 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical : — "Tale 
fu il fine ignominioso di un uomo, che la sua nascita, 
la sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle 
passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per 
lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua 
".apacita sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, 
gli avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadmi, 
ed avevano uniti i suffragi per coUocarlo alia testa della 
republica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava glo- 
riosamenta la sua vita, il risentimcnto di un' ingiuria 
leggiera insinuo nel suo cuore tal veleno che basto a 
corrompere le antiche sue qualita, e a condulo al ter- 
mine dei scellerati ; serio esempio, che prova non es- 
servi eta, in cui la prudenza umana sia sicura e che neW 
uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo^ qvan- 
do non invigili sopra se stesso.''^ — Laugier, Italian 
translation, vol. iv. pp. 30, 31. 

Where did Dr. Moore find that ^Marino Faliero begged 
his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find 
nothing of the kind ; it is true that he avowed all. 
He was conducted to the place of torture, but there is 
no mention made of any application for mercy on his 
part ; and the very ciicumstance of their having taken 
him to the rack, seems to argue any thing but his hav- 
ing shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless 
have been also mentioned by those minute historians 
who by no nieans favour him : such, indeed, would be 
contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in 
which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to the 
truth of history. I know no justification at any distance 
of time for calumniating a historical character; surely 
truth belong* to the dead and to the unfortunate, and 
Ihey who have died upon a scafl^old have generallv had 
faults enough of their own, without attributing to them 
that which the very incurring of the perils which con- 
duct'-a them to their violent death renders, of all others, 
tlie most improbable. The black veil which is painted 
twe the place of Marino Faliero amongst the doges, 



and the Giant's Staircase, where he was crowned, and 
discrowned, and decapitated, struck forcibly upon mv 
imagination, as did his fiery character and strange story 
I went in 1819, in search of his tomb, more than once 
to the church of San Giovanni e San Paolo ; and, as 
was standing before the monument of another family 
a priest came up to me and said, "I can show yor 
finer monuments than that." I told him that 1 was ii 
search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly ot 
the Doge Marino's. " Oh," said he, " I will show it 
you ;" and, conducting me to the outside, pointed out 
a sarcophagus in the wall, with an illegible inscription. 
He said that it had been in a convent adjoining, bu' 
was removed after the French came, and placed in its 
present situation ; that he had seen the tomb opened at 
its removal ; there were still some bones remainins, but 
no positive vestige of the decapitation. The equestrian 
statue, of which I have made mention in the third act 
as before that church, is not, however, of a Faliero, 
but of some other now obsolete warrior, although of a 
later date. There were two other Doges of this family 
prior to Marino : Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara, 
in 1117 (where his descendant afterwards conquered 
the Huns), and Vital Faliero, wno reigned in 10S2 
The family, originally from Fano, was of the most il- 
lustrious in blood and wealth in the city of once the 
most wealthy, and still the most ancient families in Eu- 
rope. The length I have gone into on this subject, will 
show the interest I have taken in it. Whether I have 
succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at least trans- 
ferred into our language a historical fact worthy of 
commemoration. 

It is now four years that I have meditated this work, 
and, before I had sufficiently examined the records, I 
was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy 
in Faliero. But perceiving no foundation for this in 
historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted 
passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical 
form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew 
Lewis on that point, in talking with him of my inten- 
tion, at Venice, in 1817. " If you make him jealous," 
said he, " recollect that you have to contend with es- 
tablished wTiters, to say nothing of Shakspeare, and an 
exhausted subject; — stick to the old fiery Doge's natu- 
ral character, which will bear you out, if properly 
drawn ; and make your plot as regular as you can." — 
Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the same 
counsel. How far I have followed these instruciinns. 
or whether they have availed me, is not for me to de- 
cide. I have had no view to the stage ; in its present 
state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambi- 
tion ; besides, I have been too much behind the scenes 
to have thought it so at any time. And I cannot con- 
ceive any man of irritable feeling putting himself at 
the mercies of an audience: — the sneering reader, and 
the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and 
distant calamities ; but the trampling of an inteliigen! 
or of an ignorant audience, on a production which, be 
it good or bad, has been a mental labour to the writer, 
is a palpable and immediate grievance, heightened by 
a man's doubt of their competency to judge, and his, 
certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his 
judges. Were I capable of writing a play which could 
be deemed stage-worthy, success would give rne no 
pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this r-ensat 



244 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



•Jiat, even during the time of being one of the com- 
mittee of one of the theatres, I never made the attempt, 
md never will. » But surely there is dramatic power 
somewhere, — where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and 
Jolm Wilson exist. The "City of the Plague" and 
the "Fall of Jerusalem," are full of the best maUriel 
for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, 
except passages of " Ethwald " and " De Montfort." — 
ft is the fashion to underrate Horace Walpole, firstly, 
because he was a nobleman, and secondly, because he 
was a gentleman ; but, to say nothing of the composi- 
tion of his incomparable "Letters," and of the "Castle 
of Otranto," he is the " Ultimus Romanorum," the 
autlior of the " Mysterious Mother," a tragedy of the 
highest order, and not a puling love-play. He is the 
father of the first romance, and of the last tragedy in 
our language, and surely worthy of a higher place than 
any living writer, be he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot 
to mention that the desire of preserving, though still too 
remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregulari- 
ty, which is the reproach of the English theatrical com- 
positions, permits, has induced me to represent the 
conspiracy as already formed, and the Doge acceding 
to it, whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation 
and that of Israel Bertuccio. The other characters 
(except that of the duchess), incidents, and almost the 
time, which was wonderfully short for such a design in 
real life, are strictly historical, except that all the con- 
sultations took place in the palace. Had I followed 
this, the unity would have been better preserved ; but 
[ washed to produce the Doge in the full assembly of 
the conspirators, instead of monotonously placing him 
always in dialogue with the same individuals. For the 
real facts, I refer to the extracts given in the Appendix 
in the Italian, with a translation. 



1 " While I was in the sub-committee of Drury-Lane The- 
atre, 1 can vouch for my colleagues, and I hope for myself, 
that we did our best to bring back the legitimate drama. 1 
tried what I could to get " De Montfort " revived, but in v.Tin, 
and equally in vain in favour of Sotheby's " Ivan," which 
was thought an acting play ; and I endeavoured also to wake 
Mr. Coleridge to write a tragedy. Those who are not in ihe 
secret, will hardly believe thai the "School for Scandal" is 
the play which has brought least iiwnf.ij, averaging the num- 
ber of times it has been acted since its production ; so Mana- 
ger Dihdin assured me. Of what has occurred since Matu- 
:in's " Bertram," lam not aware ; so that 1 may be traducing, 
through ignorance, some excellent new writers ; if so, I beg 
their pardon. I have been absent from England nearly five 
years, and, till last year, I never read an English newspaper 
since my departure, and am now only aware of theatrical 
matters through the medium of the Parisian English Gazette 
of Galignani, and only for the last twelve months. Let me 
:hen deprecate all offence to tragic or comic writers, to whom 
I wish well, and of whom I know nothing. The long com- 
jlamtc of the actual slate of the drama arise, however, from 
lo fault of the performers. I can conceive nothing better 
'hail Kemble, Cooke, and Kean, in their very different man- 
ners, or than Ellbton in gentleman'' s comedy, and in seme 
jarts of tragedy. Miss O'Neill I never saw, having made 
ind kept a determination to see nothing which should divide 
ir disturb .my recollection of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble 
•vprr; t'ue ideal of tragic action; I never saw any thing at all 
eseinbling them, even in person : for this reason we shall 
lever see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is 
ilamed for want of dignity, we should remember that it is 
I arace and not an art and not to be attained by study. In i 
.11 nnc supernatural parts, he is perfect ; even his very de- 
'Vc's belong, or seem to bolons, to the parts themselves, and 
appear truer to nature. Bu' of Kemble we may say. with 
efcTcnco to his acting, vjiat the Cardins"! de Retz said of the 
MaTjuis o'" Montrose, " that he was the only man he ever 
«8» who fHmmrted hitn of jie henxis of Plutarch." 



DRAxMATIS PERSONiE. 



Dagolino, 
Bertrand, 

Signor of the Night, 



MEN. 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
LiOM, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benixte..de, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, one of the three Cnpi of the Forty, 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief of the Arsenal. 
Philip Calendaro, i 

> Conspirators. 

" Signore di NotteV one oftht. 
Officers belonging to the Re' 
) public. 
First Citizen. 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 

ViXCENZO, 1 

Pietro, > Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
Battista, * 

Secretary of the Council of Ten. 

Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, the Council of Ten, tht 
Giunta, etc., etc. 

WOMEN. 
Angiolinj, Wife to the Doge. 
Mari.inna, her FrierA. 
Female Attendants, etc. 



Scene, Venice — in the year 1355. 



MAKING FALIERO. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace. 
Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

PIETRO. 

Is not the messenger return'd ? 

BATTISTA. 

Not yet ; 
I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But -Still the signory is deep in council 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. 

PIETRO. 

Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

BATTISTA. 

How beirs he 
These moments of suspense ? 

PIETRO. 

With struggling patience. 
Placed at the ducal table, cover'd o'er 
With all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty : but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door. 
Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
And he will start up from his chair, then or use, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaz*. 
Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not tum'd a leaC 



MARINO FALIERO. 



245 



BATTISTA. 

'Tis said he is much moved, and doubtless 'twas 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 

PIETRO. 

Ay, if a poor man: Steno 's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

BATTISTA. 

Then you think 
He will not be judged hardly. 

PIETRO. 

'T were enough 
He be judged justly ; but 'tis not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

BATTISTA. 

Ana here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo? 
JEnter Vincenzo. 

VINCENZO. 

'Tis 

Decided ; but as yet his doom 's unknown : 

I saw the president in act to seal 

The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 

Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The Ducal Chamber, 

Marino Faliero, Doge; andhis nephew, Bertuccio 

Faliero. 

BERTUCCIO faliero. 

It cannot be but they will do you justice. 

DOGE. 

Ay, such as the Avogadori did. 

Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 

To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

His peers will scarce protect him ; such an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

DOGE. 

Know you not Venice ? know you not the Forty ? 
But we shall see anon. 
Bertuccio Faliero {addressing Vincenzo, then 
entering). 
How now — what tidings ? 

VINCENZO. 

I am charged to tell his highness that the court 

Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 

As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 

The sentence will be sent up to the Doge : 

In the mean time the Forty doth salute 

The prince of the republic, and entreat 

His acceptation of their duty. 

DOGE. 

Yes— 
They are wondrous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is past, you say ? 

VINCENZO. 

It is, your highness : 
The president was sealing it, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due. 
Not only to the chief of the republic. 
But the complainant, both in one united. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Are you aware, from aught you have perceived, 
Of their decision ? 



VINCENZO. 

No, my lord ; you know 
The secret customs of the courts in Venice. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

True ; but there still is something given to guess. 

Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would ralcn a 

A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 

More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 

The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 

And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant— 

And secret as the grave to which they doom 

The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects — 

At least in some, the juniors of the number — 

A searching eye, an eye hke yours, Vincenzo, 

Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

VINCENZO 

My lord, I came away upon the moment. 

And had no leisure to take note of that 

Which pass'd among the judges, even iu seeming , 

My station near the accused too, Michael Stenn 

Made me 

DOGE {abruptly). 
And how look'd he ? deliver that, 

VINCENZO. 

Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
To the decree, whate'er it were ; — but !o ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his hignness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 

SECRETARY. 

The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
Contain'd, together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

DOGE. 

Retire, and wait without, — Take thou this paper : 

[Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
I cannot fix them. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Patience, my dear uncle : 
Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

DOGE. 

Say on. 
BERTUCCIO FALIERO {reading). 
"Decreed 
In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confessJon, 
Guilty on the last night of carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words " 

DOGE, 

Wouldst thou repeat t mp 
Wouldst thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
Dishonour'd in its chief — that chief the prmce 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
{Reads) " That Michel Steno be detam'd a cnontt 
In close arrest." 



1 — _ 




> 


246 BYRON'S WORKS. 




DOGE. 


Will pomt the finger, and the haughty noble 




Proceed. 


May spit ujwn us : where is our redress 1 




BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 


BERTCCCIu FALIERO. 




My lord, 'tis fimsh'd. 


The law, my prince — 




DOGE. 


DOGE {interrupting him). 




FT iw, say you ?— finish'd ! Do I dream ?— 'T is false — 
Give me the paper — {Snatches the paper^ and reads). 


You see what it has done : 




I ask'd no remedy but fi-om the law— 




" 'Tis decreed in coucdl 


I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 




That Michel Steao" Nephew, thine arm! 


I caird no judges but those named bv law — 




BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my suojecis, 




Nay, 


The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 




Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd for^ 
Let me seek some assistance. 


And gave me thus a double right to be so. 




The rights of place and choice, of birth and servire. 




DOGE. 


Honours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs. 




j Stop, sir— stir not— 


The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 




T is past. 


The blood and sweat of ahnost eighty years. 




EERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest staia 




I cannot but agree with you 


The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 




Ihe sentence is too slight for the offence : 


Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 




It is not honourable in the Forty 


And this is to be borne ? 




To affix so slight a penalty to that 


BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 




Which was a foul affront to you, and even 


I say not that : 




To ihem, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 


In case your fresh appeal should be rejected. 




Yet without remedy ; you can appeal 


We will find other means to make all even. 




To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 


DOGE. 




Who, seeing that true justice is withheld. 


Appeal again ! art thou my brother's son? 




Will now take up the cause they once declined, 


A scion of the house of Faliero ? 




And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 


The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 




Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 


Which hath already given three dukes to Vemce 7 




So tb:'d ? you heed me not : — I pray you, hear me ! 


Bui thou say'st well— we must be humble now. 




DOGE {dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 


BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 




to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is with- 


My princely uncle ! you are too much moved :— 




held by his nepheu). 


I grant it was a gross offence ; and grossly 




Oh, thai the Saracen were in Saint Mark's 


Left without fitting punishment ; but still 




Thus would I do him homage. 


This fury doth exceed the provocation, 




BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 


Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 




For the sake 


We will ask justice ; if it be denied. 




Of heaven and all its samts^ my lord 


We 'H take it ; but may do all this in calmness- 




DOGE 


Deep vengeance is the daughter of deep silence 




Away ! 


I have yet scarce a third part of your years. 




Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 


I love our house, I honour you, its chief, 




Oh that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 


The guardian of my youth, and its instructor- 




Were ranged around the palace ! 


But though I understand your grief, and enter 




BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 




'T is not weD 


To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 




Ir Vemce Uuke to say so. 


O'ersweep ail bounds, and foam itself to air. 




DOGE. 


DOGE. 




Venice' Duke ! 


I tell thee — must I tell thee — what thy father 




Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me see him. 


Would have required no words to comprehend ? 




That he may do me righL 


Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 




BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 


Of torture fi-om the touch ? hast thou no soul — 




If you forget 


No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour ? 




Vour office, and its dignity and duty, 


BERTCCCIO FALIERO. 




Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 


'T is the first time that honour has been doubted, 




The Duke of Venice 


And were the last, from any other sceptic. 




DOGE {interrupting him). 


DOGE. 




There is no such thing — 


You know the ftill offence of this bom villain, 




It IS a word — nay, worse — a worthless by- word: 


This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon. 




Fne most despised, \vron2'd, outraged, helpless wretch. 


Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel. 




Vho begs h.s bread, if 't is refused by one, 


And on the honour of— Oh. God I — my wife. 




May win it from another kinder heart ; 


The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour 




But he who is denied his right by those 


Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 




»VI,iise place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 


Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comm*wa 




Th.i" u.e rejected beggar — he's a slave — 


And \-illanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 




\nd that am I, eind thou, and all our house, 


While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guiBC, 




Fver. C-ora this bou^; the meanest artisan 


Whisper'd the tale and snuled uoon the he 





MARINO FALIERO. 



21? 



Which ninde me look like them— a courteous vviltol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERC. 

But still it was a lie — you knew it false, 
And so did all men. 

DOGE. 

Nephew, the high Roman 
Said " Csesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

True — but in those days 

DOGE. 

What is it that a Roman would not suffer. 
That a Venetian prince must bear? Old Dandolo 
defused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
Because 't is now degraded. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

'T is even so. 

DOGE. 

ft is — it is : — I did not visit on 

The innocent creature, thus most vilely slander'd, 

Because she took an old man for her lord. 

For that he had been long her father's friend 

And patron of her house, as if there were 

No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 

And beardless faces ;— I did not for this 

Visit the villain's infamy on her. 

But craved my country's justice on his head, 

The justice due unto the humblest being 

Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 

Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 

Who hath a name whose honour's all to him, 

When these are tainted by the accursing breath 

Of calumny and scorn. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

And what redress 
Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 

DOGE. 

Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the state- 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband 1 scom'd 
As man? reviled, degraded, as a prince? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason? and he lives ! 
Had ht, instead of on the Doge's throne, 
Si-^^mp'd the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
his blood had gilt the threshold, for the carle 
Had stabb'd him on the instant. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Do not doubt it : 
Be shall not live till sunset— leave to me 
The means, and cajm yourself. 

DOGE. 

Hold, nephew ! this 
Would have sufficed but yesterday : at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

What mean you? is not the offence redoubled 
By this most rank— I will not say— acquittal, 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpumsh'd? 

DOGE. 

It is redoubled, but not now by him : 



The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
We must obey the Forty. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Obey them ! 
Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign 1 

DOGE. 

Why, yes ; — boy, you perceive it then at last : 

Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 

For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 

They have defrauded me of both my rights 

(For here the sovereign is a citizen); 

But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 

Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me 

The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me 

I never meant this miscreant should escape. 

But wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion, 

That we more surely might devise together 

His taking off. 

DOGE. 

No, nephew, he must live ; 
At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim ; 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Your wishes are my law ; and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honour of our house must ever be. 

DOGE. 

Fear not ; you shall have time and place of prool: 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
1 am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

^_*i:HTUCCIO FALIERO. 

^ ^^Why, that 's my uncle ! 
The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 
I wondcr'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury, at these years, 
Although the cause 

DOGE. 

Ay, think upon the cause 
Forget it not : — when you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : 
So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not,— 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do. 
And you shall have a part.— But now retire, 
'T is fit I were alone. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

( Taking up and placing the ducal bonnet an the taOie) 

Ere I depart, 
I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd. 
Till you can change it hapiy for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring yon 
In all things to uely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kip-sman. 
And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

[Exit Bertuccio Falier«' 

DOGE [solus). 

Adieu, my worthy nephew. — Hollow bauble ! 

[Taking up :he avr.nl car 



248 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Beset with all the thorns that Hne a crown, 

Without investing the insulted brow 

With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 

Tliou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 

L ;t me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puts it on. 

How my brain aches beneath thee ' and my temples 

Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 

Could I not turn thee to a diadem? 

Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 

Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 

Milking the peo[)le nothing, and the prince 

A pageant ? In my life I have achieved 

Tasks no' less difficult — achieved for them 

Who thus repay me ! — Can I not requite them? 

Oil, for one year ! Oh, but for even a day 

Of my full youth, while yet my body served 

INly soul, as serves the generous steed his lord ! 

I would have dash'd amongst them, asking few 

In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 

But now I must look round for other hands 

To serve this hoary head ; but it shall plan 

In such a sort as will not leave the task 

Herculean, though as yet 't is but a chaos 

Of darkly-brooding thoughts : my fancy is 

In her first work, more nearly to the light 

Holding the sleeping images of things, 

For the selection of the pausing judgment— 

The troops are few in 

Enter Vj ncenzo. 

There is one without 
Graves audience of your highness. 

DOGE. 

I 'm unwell— 
1 can see no ine, not even a patric'an — 
Let him refer his business to the council. 

VINCENZO. 

My lord, I vmt deliver your reply ; 

It cannot much import — he 's a plebeian, 

The master of a galley, I beUeve. 

DOGE. 

Hi.vv ! did you say the patron of a galley? 
Thai IS — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit ViNCENZO. 
DOGE {solus). 

This patron maybe sounded ; I will try him. 

I know the people to be discontented ; 

They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day. 

When Genoa conquer'd : they have further cause, 

Since they are nothing in the state, and in 

The citv worse than nothing — mere machines, 

To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 

i he troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 

And murmur deeply — any hope of change 

Wid draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 

Wuh ])lunder : —but the priests — I doubt the piiesthood 

Will not be with us ; they have hated me 

Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 

mote the tardy bishop at Treviso,' 
(quickening his holy march : yet, ne'ertheless, 
Thev mav be won, at least their chief at Rcme, 
\if some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
Al' things, I must be speedy ; at my hour 
Of twilignt, little light of life remains, 
u'ould I free Venice, and avenge my wiongs, 

oad lived t(,o long, and willingly would sleep 



Next moment with my sires : and, wanting thi«, 

Better that sixty of my fourscore vears 

Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 

The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 

They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 

The thing these arch oppressors fain would make me. 

Let me consider — of efficient troops 

There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 

VINCENZO. 

May it piefiSi. 
Your highness, the same patron whom 1 spake of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

DOGE. 

Leave the chamber, 
Vincenzo. — 

[Exit Vincenzo. 
Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Redress. v 

DOGE. 

Of whom ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Of God and of the Doge. 

DOGE. 

Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

'T were in vain ; 
For he who injured me is one of them. 

DOGE. 

There 's blood upon thy face — how came it there ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

'T is mine, and not the first I 've shed for Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. 

DOGE. 

Doth he live ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Not long— 
But for the hope I had and have, that you. 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself; if not — 
I say no more. 

DOGE. 

But something you would dfj — 
Is it not so? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I am a man, my lord. 

DOGE. 

Why, so is he who smote you. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

He is call'd so ; 
Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn-' 
'T is said the worm will. 

DOGE. 

Say his name and Lneage f 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Barbaro. 

DOGE. 

What was the cause, or the pretext? 



MARINO FALIERO. 



24i^ 



ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I am the chief of the arsenal, employ'd 

At yjresenf in repairing certain galleys 

But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 

This morning comes the noble Barbaro 

Full of reproof, because our artisans 

Had left some frivolous order of his house, 

T') execute the state's decree : I dared 

To .ptistify the men— he raised his hand ; — 

Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flow'd 

Dishonourably. 

DOGE. 

Have you long time served ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

So long as to remember Zara's siege, 

And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 

Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 

DOGE, 

How ! are we comrades ? — the state's ducal robes 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognised you not. Who placed you ? 

ISRAEL BEr.TUCCIO. 

The late Doge ; keeping still my old command 
As pati on of a galley : my new office 
Was given as the reward of certain scars 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say): 
I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff, 
Ai least, in such a cause. 

DOGE. 

Are you much hurt ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

DOGE. 

Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

That which I dare not name, and yet will do. 

DOGE. 

Then wherefore came you here ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I com.e for justice, 
Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fill'd the ducal throne. 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

DOGE. 

You come to me for justice — unto me ! 
The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 'twas denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

How says your highness ? * 

DOGE. 

Steno is condemn'd 
To a month's confinement. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

What ! the same who dared 
To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shame to every ear in "Venice ? 

DOGE. 

Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the arsenal, 
Keeping aue time with every hammer's clink, 
As a. good jest to jolly artisans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
Z 37 



In the vile tune of every galley slave. 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not a shamed dotard, like the Doge 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Is it possible? a month's imprisonment ! 
No more for Steno ? 

DOGE. 

You have heard the offence, 
And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
They '11 do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Ah ! dared I speak my feeUngs ! 

DOGE. 

Give them breath. 
Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Then, m a word, it rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, 
However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — 
But the base insult done your state and person. 

DOGE. 

You overrate my power, which is a pageant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
Nay, more, a beggars are his own, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Wouldst thou be king ? 

DOGE. 

Yes — of a happy people. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice ? 

DOGE. 

Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty, 
So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic hydra, 
The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 

ISRAEL BE.RTUCCIO. 

Yet, thou wast born and still hast lived patrician. 

DOGE. 

In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servauo 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honour were my guerdon. 
I have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and conqu«i i 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies. 
As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My fathers' and my birth-place, whose dear spnea, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view- 
Once more ; but not for any knot of men, 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this : 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom? Had the bird a voice. 
She'd tell thee 'twas for all her htile one?- 



250 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ISilAEL BERTUCCIO. 

And vet they made thee Duke. 

DOGE. 

They made me so ; 
I sought it not ; the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
At these late years, decline what was tlie highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Yon shall do both, if you possess the will. 
And many thousands more not less oppress'd. 
Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 

DOGE. 

You speak in riddles. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Which shall soon be read, 
At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

DOGE. 

Say on. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO, 

Not thou. 
Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on, but the whole people 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs : 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners and civic troops 
Feel with their friends ; for who is he amongst them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further; 
Even now — but I forget that, speaking thus, 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of ray death! 

DOGE. 

And, sufiering what thou hast done, fear'st thou death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

No, I will speak 
At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
And sorrow too •- for he will lose far more 
Than I. 

POGE. 

From me fear nothing ; out with it. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Know, then, that there are met and sworn in secret 

A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; 

MeTi -vfiic have proved all fortunes, and have long 

Grji-ved ovei that of Venice, and have right 

Ta -lo so • having served her in all climes. 

And having rescued her from foreign foes. 

Would do the same from those within her v/alls. 

They aie not nuTnerous, nor yet too few 

For the j- great purpose ; ihey have arms, and means, 

rltic ho{.ag and hopes, and faith and patient courage. 



DOGE. 

For what then do they pause ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

An hour to strike. 
DOGE {aside). 
Saint Mark's shall strike that hour ! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I now have placec 
My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause. 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so, 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter 

DOGE. 

How many are ye ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I '11 not answer that 
Till I am answer'd. 

DOGE. 

How, Sir ! do you menace 7 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

No ; I affirm. I have betray'd myself; 

But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 

Which undermine your palace, nor in those 

Not less appaUing cells, " the leaden roofs," 

To force a single name from me of others. 

The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ; 

They might wring blood from me, but treachery nevft, 

And I would pass the fearful " Bridge o( Sighs," 

Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 

Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 

Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 

The prison and the palace walls : there are 

Those who would hve to think on 't and avenge me. 

DOGE. 

If SMch your power and purpose, why come here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Because the ma^ 
Who claims protection from authority. 
Showing his confidence and his' submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition? 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd. 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

DOGE. 

What was that ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Some rumours that the Doge was greatly movea 

By the reference of the Avogadori 

Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 

Had reach'd me. I had served you, honour'd you, 

And felt that j-ou were dangerously insulted. 

Being of an order of such spirits as 

Requite tenfold both good and evil ; 'twas 

My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 

Now you know all ; and that I speak tho truth, 

My peril be the pmof. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



151 



DOGE. 

You have deeply ventured ; 
But all must do so who would greatly win : 
Thus far I '11 answer you — your secret's safe. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Aud is this all? 

DOGE. 

Unless with all entrusted, 
What would you have me answer ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I would have you 
Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

DOGE. 

But I must know your plan, your names, and numbers 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strengthen'd. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

We 're enough already ; 
You are the sole ally we covet now. 

DOGE. 

But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

That shall be done, upon your formal pledge 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

DOGE. 

When ? where ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

This night I '11 bring to your apartment 
Two of the principals ; a greater number 
Were hazardous. 

DOGE. 

Stay, I must think of this. 
What if I were to trust myself amongst you, 
And leave the palace? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You must come alone. 

DOGE. 

With but my nephew. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Not were he your son. 

DOGE. 

Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He died in arms. 

At Sapienza, for this faithless state. 

Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 

Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 

I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Not one of all those strangers whom thou doubtest 

But will regard thee with a filial feeling, 

So that thou keep'st a father's faitli with them. 

DOGE. 

The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me. 
To wait your coming, and conduct ^ou where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Opon our project. 

DO'SF. 

At whpt hour arises 
The moon ? 

ISR^PL BERTUCCIO. 

Late ; o'jf the stmosphere is thick and dusky; 



r is a siroc^/). 



DOGE. 

At tne midnight hour then. 



Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the same. 

Twin-named fr^^m the apostles John and Paul ; 

A gondola,^ with one oar only, will 

Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 

Be there. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I will not fail. 

DOGE. 

And now retire 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

In the full hope your highness will not falter 

In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Israel Bertuccio. 
DOGE {solus). 
At midnight, by the church Saints John and Pau., 
Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
To what? to hold a council in the dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 
Where lie two Doges who preceded me, 
And pluck me down amongst them? Would they cou! J 
For I should rest in honour with the honour'd. 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name, 
Noble and brave as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles : but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals. 
By sweet revenge on all that 's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of time, 
Which never spare the fame of him who fails, 
But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert — success. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Ducal Palace 
Angiolina {wife of the Doge) and Marians < 

ANGIOLINA. 

What was the Doge's answer ? 

MARIANNA. 

That he was 
That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
And the last gondola may now be seen 
Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
The glittering waters. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Would he were retum'd ! 
He has been much disquieted of late ; 
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spiri!_ 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame. 
Which seems to be more nourish'd by a soul 
So quick and restless that it would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who. 
In the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear m him 
An aspect of eternity : his thoughts. 
His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, me mcuonts cf veam 



1 1 . . : -\ 


252 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Xot tlieit ileoi-'ipitude : and he of late 


And not the quality they prize ; the first 


Has been more agitated than his wont. 


Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, 


Would he were come ! for I alone have power 


If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 


[Jpon his troubled spirit. 


And those who have not kept it seek Us seeming 


MARIANNA. 


As they would look out for an ornament 


It is true, 


Of which they feel the want, but not because 


His highness has of late been greatly moved 


They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts. 


By the affront of Steno, and with cause ; 


And would seem honest as tliey must seem fair. 


But the ofTender doubtless even now 


MARIANNA. 


Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 


You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame. 


Such chastisement as will enforce respect 


ANGIOLINA. 


To female virtue, and to noble blood. 


And yet they were my father's ; with his name. 


ANGIOLINA. 


The sole inheritance he left. 


'T was a gross insult ; but I heed it not 


MARIANNA. 


For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, 


You want none ; 


But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 


Wife to a prmce, the chief of the republic. 


Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 


ANGIOLINA. 


The proud, the fiery, the austere— austere 


I should have sought none, though a peasant's hrida, 


To all save me : I tremble when I think 


But feel not less the love and gratitude 


To what it may conduct. 


Due to my father, who bestovv'd my hand 


MARIANNA. 


Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend. 


Assuredly 


The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 


The Doge cannot suspect j^ou? 


MARIANNA. 


ANGIOLINA. 


And with that hand did he bestow your heart? 


Suspect me ! 


ANGIOLINA. 


Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie, 


He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 


Grovellmg by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, 


MARIANNA. 


His own still conscience smote him for the act, 


Yet this strange disproportion in your years. 


And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 


And, let me add, disparity of tempers. 


Upon his coward calumny. 


Might make the world doubt whether such an union 


MARIANNA. 


Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 


'T were fit 


ANGIOLINA. 


He should be punish'd grievously. 


The world will think with worldlings : but my heart 


ANGIOLINA. 


Has still been in my duties, which are many, 


He is so. 


But never difficult. 


MARIANNA. 


MARIANNA. 


What ! is the sentence pass'd ? is he condemn'd ? 


And do you love him ? 


ANGIOLINA. 


ANGIOLINA. 


I know not that, but he has been detected. 


I love all noble qualities which merit 


MARIANNA. 


Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 


And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 


To single out what we should love in others, 


ANGIOLINA. 


And to subdue all tendency to lend 


} would not be a judge in my own cause, 


The best and purest feelings of our nature 


N'or do I know what sense of punishment 


To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 


May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 


Upon Faliero : he had known him noble. 


B»;t if his insults sink no deeper in 


Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 


The minds of the inquisitors than they 


Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 


Have raffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 


Such have I found him as my father said. 


Be left to his own shanielessness or shame. 


His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 


MARIANNA. 


Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, ! 


Some sacriiice is due to slander'd virtue. 


And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 


ANGIOLINA. 


The uses of patricians, and a life 


Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 


Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 


Or if it mast depend upon men's words? 


From the quick sense of honour, which becomes 


The dying Roman said, " 't was but a name :" 


A duty to a certain sign, a vice 


It were mdeed no more, if human breath 


When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 


Could make or mar it. 


And then he has been rash from his y»uth upwards 


MARIANNA. 


Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 


Yet full many a dame, 


In such sort, that the wariest of republics 


Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 


Has lavished all its chief employs upon him. 


Of such a slander • and less rigid ladies, 


From his first fight to his last embassy. 


Such as abounc' In Venice, would be loud 


From which on his return the dukedom met him. 


Ami all-inexorable in their cry 


MARIANNA. 


Vor I'lsticc. 


But, previous to this marriage, had your heart 


AXGIOLINA. 


Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 


This but proves it is tlie name 


Such as in years had been more meet to matr.H 





MARINO FALIERO. 



'25 ,i 



Beauty like yours? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I answer'd your first question when I said 
I married. 

MA RI ANNA. 

And the second ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Needs no answer. 

MARIANNA. 

[ pray you pardon, if I have offended. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might choose, 
Or aught, save their past choice. 

MARIANNA. 

'T is their past choice 
That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

ANGIOLINA. 

It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 

MARIANNA. 

Here conies the Doge — shall I retire ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

It may 
Be better you should quit me ; he seems wrapt 
In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! 

[Ejcit Marianna. 
Enter the Doge and Pietro. 
DOGE {musing). 
There is a certain Philip Calendar© 
Now in the arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades. 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular. 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret: 'twould 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
But fain would be ' 

PIETRO. 

My lord, pray pardon me 
For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman. 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

DOGE. 

At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — 

Say in the second hour of night. [Exit Pietro. 

ANGIOLINA. 

My lord! 

DOGE. 

My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
So long approaching me? — I saw you not. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now 
Has parted from you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

DOGE. 

From the senate? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

DOGE. 

The senate's duty ! yon mistake ; 
'T is wc who owe all service to the senate. 
z2 



ANGIOLINA. 

I thought the Duice had held command in Venice. 

DOGE. 

He shall. — But let that pass. — We will be jocuiio. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favours the gondolier's light skimming oar j 
Or have j'ou held a levee of your friends ? 
Or has your music made you solitary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure. 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved wiih many cares ? 
Speak, and 't is done. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You 're ever kind to me — 
I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

DOGE. 

Calmer? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As, not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

DOGE. 

Disclose too much! — of what^ 
What is there to disclose ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

A heart so ill 
At ease. 

DOGE. 

'T is nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without, 
And malcontents within — 't is this which makes mo 
More pensive art! less tranquil than my wont. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me : there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties. 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'T is not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk 
And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power, 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port. 
Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow: 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

DOGE. 

Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels. 
And of all sins most easily besets 



C54 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mortals the ne^jo-st to the angelic nature: 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 

DOGE. 

I had the pride of honour, of your honour, 

Deep at my heart — But let us change the theme. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kindness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
FVom your distress : were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you : but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry, detected, 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would soothe you back to what you were. 

DOGE. 

To what I was !— Have you heard Steno's sentence? 

ANGIOLINA. 

No. 

D06£. 

A month's arrest. 

ANGIOLI>^A. 

Is it not enough ? 

DOGE. 

Enough ! — Yes, for a drunken galley slave. 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Wlio stains a lady's and a prince's honour, 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

ANGIOLINA. 

There seems to be enough in the conviction 
01 a patrician guilty of a falsehood: 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honour. 

DOGE. 

Such men have no honour; 
They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 

ANGIOLINA. 

fou would not have him die for this offence? 

DOGE. 

Not now : — being still alive, I 'd have him live 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Oh! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

DOGE. 

Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood ? 

And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 

Is It the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 

That makes such deadly to the sense of man ? 

Do not the laws of man say blood for honour ? 

And Jess than honour, for a little gold? 

Say not tne laws ot nations blood for treason? 

Is 't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 

For their o^nce healthful current? is it nothing 

To have stain'd your name and mine ? the noblest names? 

Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 

A pnnce before his people ] to have fail'd 

In the respect accorded by p>^nkind 

To youth in woman, and old age in man? 

To virtue In your sex, and dignity 



In ours ? — But let them iook to it who have saved hira. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

DOGE. 

Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Satan saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Do not speak thus wildly — 
Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

DOGE. 

Amen! May Heaven forgive them. 

ANGIOLINA. 

And will you? 

DOGE. 

Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

And not till then ? 

DOGE. 

What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's, 

Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters theo 

My pardon more than m}' resentment? both 

Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. 

But let us change the argument. — My child ! 

My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 

The brave, the chivalrous, how Uttle deem'd 

Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 

That he was linking thee to shame ! — Alas 

Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst ;tioy 

But had a different husband, any husband 

In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 

This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 

So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure. 

To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trust, and honour me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true: what more 
Could I require, or you command? 

DOGE. 

'T is well, 
And may be better ; but whate'er betide. 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why speak you thus ? 

DOGE. 

It is no matter why ; 
But I would still, whatever others think, 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why should you doubt it? has it ever fail'd ? 

DOGE. 

Come hither, child ; I would a word with you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies. 
Which bind the good more firmly : when oopre* 
With his last malady, he wiH'd our union : 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honourable safety from the perils 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely aiJ undower'd maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not o[)pose the thougls* 
Which soothed his death-bed. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I have not fbrgotto» 
The nobleness with which you bade me sneak, 



MARINO FALIERO. 



256 



[f my younor heart held any preference 

Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer 

To make my dowry equal to the rank 

Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 

My father's last injunction gave j'ou. 

DOGE. 

Thus, 
'T was not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride ; for in my fieriest youth 
[ s'.vay'd such passions ; nor was this my age, 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very last 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helj)iess to refuse a state that 's honest. 
Too feehng not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
your father's choice. 

ANGIOLIN.A. 

I did so ; I would do so 
In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
Iri pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 

DOGE. 

I knew my heart would never treat you harshly ; 
I knew my da5's could not disturb you long ; 
And then the daughter of my earhest friend, 
His worthy daughter, free to choose again 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years ; 
Intifcriting a prince's name and riches ; 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, agamst all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right : my best friend's child 
Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 
And not less truly in a faithfrl heart. 

AXGIOLINA. 

My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, 

Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 

For doing all its duties, and replying 

With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 

Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and, should 

The hour you speak of come, it will be seec so. 

DOGE. 

I do believe you ; and I know you true: 

For love, romantic love, which in my youth 

I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 

Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 

No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 

And could not be so now, did such exist. 

But such respect, and mildly paid regard 

As a ti-ue feeling for your welfare, and 

A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 

A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 

Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failinors 

As youth is apt in ; so as not to check 

Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 

You had been won, but thought the change your choice ; 

A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct. — 

A trust in you — a patriarchal love. 



And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — ■ 
Such estimation in yoh,f eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped [ou 

ANGIOLI3VA. 

And have ever had. 

DOGE. 

I think so. For the difference in our years. 

You knew it, choosing rne, and chose : I trusted 

Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 

In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 

Were I still in my five-and-twentieth spring : 

I trusted to the blood of Loredano, 

Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 

God gave you — to the truths your father taught Vi^- 

To 5'our belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 

To your own faith and honour, fo-- my own. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You have done well. — I thank you for that trust, 
W'hich I have never for one moment ceased 
To honour you the more for. 

DOGE. 

Where is honour. 
Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
Of faith connubial ; where it is not — w here 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of w^orldly pleasure rankle in the heart. 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood. 
Although 't were wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it* 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fallen woman must for ever fall, 
For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands Hke the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

AKGIOLINA. 

And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, 
(I pray you pardon me), but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Disquiet your great thoughts, with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno? 

DOGE. 

You mistake me. 
It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
Had it been so, he should — —but let tliat pass. 

ANGIOLXNA. 

What is't you fe*' so deeply, then, even row* 

3^0GE. 

The violated majesty of V enic«^ 

At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

AXGIOLINA. 

Alas ! why will you thus consider it? 

DOGE. 

I have thought on't till — but lei me lead you banjt 
To what I urged : al! these things being noted, 
I wedded you ; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yoms was all to oraise 
You had all freedom- -all resp-jct — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who m«vj« 



256 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
AVorthy to be our first of native dames. 

ANGIOLINA. 

To what does this conduct ? 

DOGE. 

To thus much — that 
A miscreant's angrj' breath may blast it all — 
A villain whom, for his unbridled bearing, 
Even m the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to. demean himself in ducal chambers; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
And this shall spread itseli" m general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honour, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels, 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion. 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

AXGIOLINA. 

But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 

DOGE. 

For such as him, a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I 've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

ANGIOLINA. 

With me, my lord ? 

DOGE. 

Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 

Have let this prey upon me till I feel 

My life cannot be long ; and fain would have you 

Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll. {Giving her a paper) Fear not ; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter, at the fitting hour. 

ANGIOLINA. 

My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honour'd still by me : but may your days 
Be many yt t — and happier than the present ! 
This passior. will give way, and j'ou will be 
Serene, and what j'ou should be — what you were. 

DOGE. 

I will be what I should be, or be nothing ; 

But never more — oh! never, never more. 

O'er the few days or hours which yet await 

The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 

Sweet quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 

Those summer shadows rising from the past 

Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious hfe, 

Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 

Shall soothe rr.e to my moment of long rest. 

1 had but little more to ask, or hope, 

Save the regards due to the blood and sweat. 

And the soul's labour through which I have toil'd 

To make mv country honour'd. As her servant — 

Her si'irvant, tnough her chief — I would have gone 

Down lo my lat tiers with a nan.e serene 

And (ifire as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 

Woiil'l 1 nad diea at Zara ! 

' awgiolina. 

riiere you saved 



The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

DOGE. 

But one such day occurs wiihin an age , 
My hfe is hltle less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
That which scarce one more favour'd citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
There 's much for me to Jo — and the hour hastens 

ANGIOLINA. 

Remember what you were. 

DOGE. 

It were in vain, 
Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
While sorro v's memory is a sorrow still. 

ANGIOLINA. 

At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore 

That you will take some little pause of rest : 

Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 

That it had been relief to have awaked you. 

Had I not hoped that nature would o'erpower 

At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus, 

An hour of rest will give you to your toils 

With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

DOGE. 

I cannot— 
I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : }'et a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights. 
And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no matter. 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Let me be 
An instant — yet an mstant your companion; 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

DOGE. 

Come then. 
My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vate 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within — above — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I a-m nothing, let that which I was 
Be still, sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember ;— 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

\ Exeunt. 



SCENE n. 

A retired spot near tlie Arsenal. 
Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calends ro. 

CALENDARO. 

How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint ? 

ISRAEL PERTU CIO. 

Why, well. 



MARINO FALIERO. 25^ 


CALENDARO. 


CALENDARO. 


Is 't possible ? will he be punish'd ? 


These brave words have breathed new lif*. 


i ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 


i res. 


And hesitating councils : day on day 


! CALENDARO. 


Crawl'd on, and added but another link 


»Yith what? a mulct or an arrest? 


To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves. 


With death!— 


Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 


CALENDARO. 


Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 


Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 


For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 


Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 


I 'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate, forego 


We will be free in hfe or death ! the grave 


The great redress we meditate for 'V'enice, 


Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready? 


And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 


And are the sixteen companies completed 


Lea\'ing one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 


To sixty ? 


My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 


CALENDARO. 


No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 


All save two, in which there are 


Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 


Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 


For their requital — but not only his ; 

We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


No matter ; we can do without. W^hose are they f 


Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

CALENDARO. 


CALENDARO. 


Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 


Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 


You have more patience than I care to boast. 
Had I been present when vou bore this insult, 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 


1 must have siain him, or expired myself 


Who are not restless, cold : but there exists 


in tliQ vain effort to repress my wrath. 


Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 


Thank Heaven you were not — all had else been marr'd : 
As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 


CALENDARO. 


I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 


CALENDARO. 


There is a hesitating softness, fatal 


You saw 


To enterprise like ours : I've seen that man 


The Doge — what answer gave he ? 


Weep like an infant o'er the misery 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Ot others, heedless of his own, though greater; 


That there was 


And, in a recent quarrel, I beheld him 


No punishment for such as Barbaro. 


Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's.. 


CALENDARO. 


ISRAEL EERTUCCtO. 


I toiQ you so before, and that 't Vv'as idle 


The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes. 


To think of justice from such hands. 


And feel for what their duty bids them do. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


I have known Bertram long ; there doth not bnid^bp 


At least, 


A soul more full of honour. 


It hiU'd suspicion, showing confidence. 


CALENDARO. 


Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 


It may be so, 


Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 


I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 


A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 


Yet, as he has no mistress, and no wife 


CALENDARO. 


To work upon his milkincss of spirit. 


But wherefore not address you to the Council? 


He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 


The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 


He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 


Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 


A woman or a child had made him less 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Than either in resolve. 


You shall know that hereafter. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


CALENDARO. 


Such ties are not 


Why not now ? 


For those who are called to the high desMnies 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 


Be patient but till midnight. Get yoiu- musters, 


We must forget all feehngs save the oiif. — 


And bid your friends prepare their companies: — 


We must resign all passions save our purpcse- 


Set all in readiness to strike the blow. 


We must behold no object save our country — 


Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 


And only look on dea.h as beaTitiful, 


For a fit time — that hour is on the dial. 


So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven. 


It may be, of to-moiTOw's sun : delay 


And draw down freedom on her evermore. 


Beyond may oreed us double danger. See 


CALENDARO. 


That all be punctual at our place of meeting. 


But, if we fail? 


And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO 


Who will remain among the troops to wait 


They never fail wno cit; 


The signal. 


In a great cause : the block may soak their gorci 


38 





253 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tlicir heads nuiy stdden in the sun ; their limbs 

Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 

Rut still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 

Eiapse, and others share as dark a doom, 

They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 

Which o'erpower all others, and conduct 

The world at lost to freedom. What were we, 

If Brutus had not lived 7 He died in giving 

Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 

A name which is a virtue, and a soul 

Which multiphes itself throughout all time, 

W^hen wicked men wax mighty, and a state 

Turns servile : he and his high friend were stj4ed 

" The last of Romans !" Let us be the first 

Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

CALENDARO. 

Our fathers did not fly from Attila 

Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 

On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 

To own a thousand despots in his place. 

Better bow down before the Hun, and call 

A Tartar lord, than these swoln silk- worms masters ! 

The first at least was man, and used his sword 

As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 

Command our swords, and rule us with a word 

As with a spell. 

ISRAEL BERTirCCIO. 

It shall be broken soon. 
Sfou say that all things are in readiness ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round. 
And why »hou knowcst; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair colour to the introduction 
OC many of our cause into the arsenal. 
As new artificers for their equipment. 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms? 

CALENDARO 

Ab who were deem'd trust- worthy : there are some 

Wnom it were -ve.! to keep in ignorance 

Till It be time to strike, and then supply them ; 

When "m the heat and hurry of the hour 

They have no opportunity to pause ; 

But needs must on with those who will surround them. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You liave said well. — Have you remark'd all such? 

CALENDARO. 

I 've noted most : and caused the other chiefs 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 't is 
Commenced to-morrow ; but till 't is begun, 
Each hour is pregnant witli a thousand perils. 

ISRAEL BERTVCCIO. 

Let the Sixteen meet at the «vonted hour, 
Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuua, who will keep their watch 
Within the ^rbenal, and hold all ready, 
Expecta'-t of the signal we will fix on. 

CALENDARO. 

We will 10* fail 

ISRAET, BERTUCCIO. 

Let ail the rest be there : 
I haf *• itranger to oresent to them. 



CALENDARO. 

A stranger! doth he know the secret? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Yes. 

CALENDARO. 

And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I have risk'd no man's life except my own — 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid : and, if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power : he comes alone with me. 
And cannot 'scape us ; but he will net swerve. 

CALENDARO. 

I cannot judge of this until I know him: 
Is he one of our order ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Ay, in spirit. 
Although a child of gi-catness ; he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow one- 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great changes , 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
Vahant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary: 
Yet, for all this, so full of certain passions, 
That if once slirr'd and baffled, as he has been 
Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 
In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grows capable of all thuigs for revenge; 
And add too, that his mind is liberal ; 
He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 
And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 
We have need of such, and such have need of us. 

CALENDARO. 

And what part would you have him take with us ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

It may be, that of chief. 

CALENDARO. 

VV^hat ! and resign 
Your own command as leader ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Even so. 
My object is to make your cause end well. 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me cjt 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found sup'^ 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, tliink yo»i 
That I would hesitate from selfishness. 
And, covetous of brief authorit}'. 
Stake our deep interest on mj^ single thoughts, 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leading qualities? No, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge.— 
Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

CALENDARO. 

Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to [Jan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief ; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
am with you, as J have ever been, 



MARINO Fz\IJERO. 



2,>9 



In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
rnlil the hour of midnight sees us meet. 



[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

Scene, the Space between the Canal and the Church of 
San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian Statue 
jefore it.— A Gondola lies in the Canal at some dis- 
tance. 

Enter the Doge alone, disguised, 

DOGE {solus). 

* am before the hour, the hour whose voice, 

Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 

ITiese palaces with ominous tottering, 

A.nd rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 

Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 

Of indistinct but awful augury 

Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 

Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 

thee 
\ lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
[s forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
And therefore was I punished, seeing this 
Patrician pestilence spread on and on. 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall fane ! 
Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 
The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 
Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 
Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
In one shrunk heap what once made many heroes. 
When what is now a handful* shook the earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints w lo guard our house I 
Vault where fvo Doges rejt — my sires ! who died 
The one of toil, the other in the field, 
With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
And sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state 
I have inherited, — let the graves gape, 
Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! 
I call them up, and them and thee to witness 
What it hath been which put me to this task — 
Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, 
Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 
Not hy me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
We fought to make our equals, not our lords: — 
And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave. 
Who perish'd in the field where I since conquer'd. 
Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
Of thine and Venice' foes, there ofFer'd up 
By thy descendant, merit such acquittance? 
Spirits ! smile down upon me, for my cause 
Is yours, in all life now can be of yours — 
Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 
And in the future fortunes of our race ! 
Let rne but prosper, and I make this city 
Free and immortal, and our hous-^'s name 
Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter! 
jEnier Israel Bertuccio. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Who goes there ? 



DOGE. 

A friend to Venice. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

'T IS he, 
Welcome, my lord, — you are before the time. 

DOGE. 

I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Have with you. — I am proud and pleased to see 

Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 

Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 

DOGE. 

Not so — but I have set my little left 
Of hfe upon this cast: the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not I 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names. 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. When 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ; 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

DOGE. 

IjTe t — iVe I — no matter — you have earn'd the ng.-v 

To talk of MS. — But to the point. — If this 

Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 

And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 

Conducts her generations to our tombs. 

And makes her children, with their little hands, 

Strew flowers o'er their deliverers' ashes, then 

The consequence will sanctify the deed, 

And we shall be like the two Bruti in 

The annals of hereafter ; but if not. 

If we should fail, employing bloody means 

And secret plot, although to a good end. 

Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 

No less than he who was thy sovereign 

Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

'T is not the moment to consider thus, 

Else I could answer.— Let us to the meeting. 

Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

DOGE. 

We are observed, and have been. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

We observed* 
Let me discover — and this steel 

DOGE. 

Put up ; 
Here are no human witnesses : — look there — 
What see you ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Only a tall warrior''s statue 
Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

DOGE. 

That warrior was the sue 
Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice-rescued city:- 
Think you that he looks down on us, or no ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCO. 

My lord, these are mere uhantasies ; there ar» 
No eyes in marble. 



DOGE. 

But there are m death. 
I tell thee, man, there is a s|)irit in 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt ; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'T IS in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
Stands plotting on the brmk of their pure graves 
With stung plebeians ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

It had been as well 
To tiave ponder'd this before, — ere you embark'd 
In our great enterprise. — Do you repent? 

DOGE. 

No — but I feel, and shall do to the last. 

I cannot quench a glorious life at once, 

Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be, 

And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause : 

Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling. 

And knowing v)hat has wrung me to be thus, 

VV' hich is your best security. There 's not 

A roused mechanic in your busy plot 

S<» wrong'd as I, so fallen, so loudly cali'd 

Tii his redress : the very means I am forced 

Ky these fell tyrants to adopt is such, 

That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 

Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Lei us away ! — hark ! the hour strikes. 

DOGE. 

On — on — 
It is GUI knell, or that of Venice. — On. — 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Say, rather, 'tis her freedom's rising peal 

Of triiuiiph— This way — we are near the place. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

IVie House where the Conspirators meet. 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele Trevisano, 

Calendaro, Antonio delle Bende, etc, etc 

calendaro {entering). 

Are all here ? 

DAGOLINO. 

All with you : except the three 
On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

CALENDARO. 

Where 's Bertram ? 

BERTRAM. 

Here! 

CALENDARO. 

Have you not been able to complete 
The nuniDer wanting in your company? 

BERTRAM. 

I had marK'd out some ; but I have not dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

CALEyDARO. 

There is no need 
01 trust m2 lo their faith : who, save ourselves 
\nd our more chosen comrades, is aware 
J<"'ully of our intent? they thmk themselves' 
Engajre<l w secret to the Signory, 



To punish some more dissolute young nobles 

Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 

But once drawn uj), and their new swords well flesh'd 

In the rank hearts of the more odious senators. 

They will not hesitate to follow up 

Their blow upon the others, when they see 

The example of their chiefs ; and I for one 

Will set them such, that they for very shame 

And safety, will not pause till all have perish'd. 

BERTRAM. 

How say you ? all ? 

CALENDARO. 

Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

BERTRAM. 

I ipaif 
I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking that even amongst these wicked men. 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

CALENDARO. 

Yes, such pity 
As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
In the last energy of venomous life. 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as sooh 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these : they form but links 
Of one long chain — one mass, one breath, one body . 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Revel and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
So let them die as one ! 

DAGOLINO. 

Should one survive, 
He would be dangerous as the whole : it is nol 
Their number, h*^ it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy, 
Which must be r-^tpH nut ; and '^ ♦here were 
A single shoot ol the whole tree in life, 
'T would fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

CALENDARO. 

Look to it well, 
Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

BERTRAM. 

Who 

Distrusts me? 

CALENDARO. 

Not I ; for if 1 did so, 
Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith. 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

BERTRAM. 

You should know, 
Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like 5'ourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen me 
Put to *he proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
I '11 clear them on your person. 

CALENDARO. 

You are welcome, 
When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 



MARIJN'O FALIERO. 



SCI 



BERTRAM. 

f am no brawler ; bul can bear myself 
As far among the foe as any he 
Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
I own my natural weakness : I have not 
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering ; and itie sight 
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
If there were some of those who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honour, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

DAGOLINO. 

Calm thee, Bertram; 
For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
U is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
feuch actions from our hands : we '11 wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 
Enter Israel Bertuccio and the Doge, disguised. 

DAGOLINO. 

Welcome, Israel. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou art late — 
Who is this stranger ? 

CALENDARO. 

It is time to name him. 
Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 
In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all. 
Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 

ISRAEL' BERTUCCIO. 

Stranger, step forth ! 
[The DoGE discovers himself. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the Doge ! 
Down with them both I our traitorous captain, and 
The (vrant he hat'h sold us to. 

CALENDARO {drawing his sword). 
Hold! Hold! 
Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! hear, 
Bertuccio. — What ! are you appall'd to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Amongst you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this mystery? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

fiCt them advance and strike at their own bosoms, 

Ungrateful suicides ! for on our Hves 

Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 

DOGE. 

Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death more fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
t should not now be here : — Oh, noble Courage ! 
The eluost born of Fear, which makes you brave 
Against tills solitary hoary head ! 
See tha bold chiefs, who vrould reform a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
A-t sight of one patrician. — Butcher me, 
2 A 



Yon can : I care not.— Israel, are these men 
The mighty hearts you spoke of? look upon them ' 

CALENDARO. 

Faith ! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was this your trust in your true chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I disdain to speak. 
They might and must have known a heart like min*' 
Incapable of treachery ; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brough. 
By me into this council, had been led 
To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 

DOGE. 

And which am I to be ? your actions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 

.ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

My lord, we would have perish'd here together, 
Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold. 
They are ashaimed of that mad moment's impulse, 
And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
As I described them. — Speak to them. 

CALENDARO. 

Ay, speak 
We are all listening in wonder. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

{Addressing the Conspirators). 

You are safe. 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then. 
And know my words for truth. 

DOGE. 

You see me here 
As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd. 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw m^ 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state. 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine. 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there you know, or think you know ; 
Why I am here he who hath been most wrong'd, 
He who among you hath been most insulted, 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
Asking of his own heart what brought i.im here? 
You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here. 
Here at my heart, the outrage — but my words, 
Already spent in unavailing plaints. 
Would only show my feebleness the more, 
And I come here to stiengthen even the stroiis., 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to wai 
With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge yoi» 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor peep.- 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
Without its virtues — temperance and valour. 
The lords of Lacedemoa were true soldiers, 
But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, mos enslavea. 



QC)'2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Alilioiiirli drest oui to head a pageant, as 

The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 

A pastime for their children. You are met 

To overthrow this monster of a state, 

This mockery of a government, this spectre, 

V\'hich must be exorcised with blood, and then 

We will renew the times of truth and justice, 

Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 

Not rash equalitj', but equal rights, 

Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 

Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 

And making firm the whole with grace and beauty. 



So the 



II . could be removed without 



Infringement of the general symmetry. 

In operating this great change, I claim 

To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 

If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 

And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 

Than live another day to act the tyrant 

As delegate of tyrants : such I am not, 

And never have been — read it in our annals : 

I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking for my fellow-men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the Senate and "The Forty," 

A sceptic of all measures which had not 

The sanction of " The Ten," a council fawner, 

A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people ; 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day learn : meantime, I do devote, 

Whatever the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power, such as it is, not that 

Of Doge, but of a man w;ho has been great 

Lcfore he was degraded to a Doge, 

^n.'l still has individual means and mind; 

I slake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 

IHy heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast ! 

Such as I am, I offer me to you 

And to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 

A prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nrthing, and who has left his throne to be so. 

CALENDARO. 

Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free ! 

COXSPIRATORS. 

Long live Faliero ! 

ISRAEL BERTtrCCIO. 

Comrades ! did I well ? 
Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

DOGE. 

Tl.^s IS no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you ? 

CALEXDARO. 

Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou hast be<;n 
Of v'enice — ^be our general and chief. 

DOGE. 

Chief! — General! — I was general at Zara, 
And chict in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Vipnice; 
i .vmoi siooD that is. I ara not fit 



To lead a band o'-^- — patriots : when I lay 
AsiJe the dignities vvoich I have borne, 
'T is not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point • 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'T IS bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

CALEXDARO. 

E'en when thou wilt — is it not so, my friends I 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it be then ? 

DOGE. 

At sunrise. 

BERTRAM. 

So soon'' 

DOGE. 

So soon ! — so late — each hour accumulates 

Peril on peril, and the more so now 

Since I have mingled with you ; know you not 

The Council, and " The Ten !" the spies, the eyes 

Of the patricians dubious of their slaves. 

And now more dubious of the prince theyhave made one"' 

I tell you you must strike, and suddenly, 

Full to the hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 

CALENDARO. 

With all my soul and sword I yield assent ; 
Our companies are ready, sixty each. 
And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
Let each repair for action to his post ! 
And now, my lord, the signal ? 

DOGE. 

When you hear 
The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not *te 
Struck without special order of the Doge 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince}, 
March on Saint Mark's ! 

ISRAEL BERT0CCIO. 

And there? 

DOGE. 

By different routei 
Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first davro 
Discern'd before the port ; form round the palace, 
Within whose court will be drawn cut in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house. 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on, 
Shout ye, " Saint Mark I— the foe is on our waters !^ 

CALENDARO. 

I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 

DOGE. 

All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower) 
Will then be gathered in unto the harvest. 
And we will reap tiieiu ^^lUl tne sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent then, 
'T will be but to be taken faint and single 
W'hen the majority are put to rest. 

CALENDARO. 

Would that the hour were come ' f9 will i ot <5cotcru 
But kilL 



MARINO FALIERO. 



263 



BERTRAM. 

Or.ce more, sir, with your pardons, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter ? 

CALENDARO. 

All who encounter me and mine, be sure, — 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

All! all! 
(s this a time to talk of pity ? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Bertram, 
This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen ? and how distinguish now the innocent 
From out the guilty ? all their acts are one — 
A single emanation from one body, 
Together knit for our oppression ! 'T is 
Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
If al! of these even should be set apart : 
The hunter may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but who e'er 
W"ould seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by their fangs ? However, 
I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel: 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 

DOGE. 

Ask me not — tempt me not with such a question — 
Decide yourselves. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You know their private virtues 
Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
Have made them deadly ; if there be amongst them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

DOGE. 

Dolfino's father was my friend, and Lando 
Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
My Genoese embassy; I saved the hfe 
Of Veniero — shall I save it twice ? 
Would that I could save them and Venice also ! 
All these men, or their fathers, were my friends 
Till they became my subjects ; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erbiown flower, 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk. 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 

. CALENDARO. 

They cannot co-exist with Venice' freedom! 

DOGE. 

Ye, thougli you know and feel our mutual mass 

Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 

What fatal poison to the si)rings of life, 

To human ties, and all that's good and dear, 

Lurks in the present institutes of Venice. 

All these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 

Requited honourably my regards ; 

We served and fought ; we smiled and wept in concert ; 

We reveil'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 



We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 

We grew in years and honours fairly, till 

Their own desire, not my ambition, made 

Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell ! 

Farewell all social memory! all thoughts 

In common! and sweet bonds which link old friend 

ships, 
When the survivors of long years and actions, 
Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth. 
Flit round them, whispering of the days gone by, 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band. 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble — • 
Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO 

My lord, you are much moved : it is not now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

DOGE. 

Your patience 
A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour that made me Doge, the Doge th£ f 

made me — 
Farewell the past ! I died to all that had been. 
Or rather they to me: no friends, no kindness. 
No privacy of life — all were cut off: 
They came not near me, such approach gave umbrapt 
They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
They thwarted me, 't was the state's policy ; 
They baffled me, 't was a patrician's duty ; 
They wrong'd me, for such was to right the stale ; 
They could not right me, that would give suspicion ; 
So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 
So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
Begirt with spies for guards — with robes for powe • 
With pomp for freedom — gaolers for a council — 
Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! 
1 had one only fount of quiet left. 
And that they poison'd ! My pure household gods 
Were shiver'd on myiiearth, and o'er their shrine 
Sate grinning ribaldry and sneering scorn. 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

You have been deeply wrong'd, and now shall b*^ 
Nobly avenged before another night. 

DOGE. 

I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it — 
Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult, 
Not only unredress'd, but sanction'd ; then 
And thus, I cast all further feeUngs from me 
The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, loi'^i 
Before, even in their oatli of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend, and made a sovereign, as boys mak- 
Playthings, to do their pleasure and be broken ' 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mut.ial hate and fear ; 
Tliey dreading he should snatch the tyrannv 
From out their grasp, and be abhornng tyrani*. 



^64 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


■» 


To me, then, these men have no private life, 


ISRAEL ERTUCCIO. 




. Nor cidirn to ties they have cut off from olliers ; 


We have them in the toi • it cannot fail ! 




As senators tor arbitrary acts 


Now thou 'rt indeed a so.o/eign, and wilt make 




Amenable, I look on them — as such 


A name immortal greater "lan the greatest ; 




Let them be dealt upon. 


Free citizens have struck t kings ere now ; 




CALtr^DARO. 


Ca;sars have fallen, and even patrician hands 




And now to action ! 


Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 




Hence, breihien, to our posts, and may this be 


Has reach'd patricians ; but until this hour. 




The last night of mere words : I 'd fain be doing ! 


What prince has plotted for his people's freedom'' 




Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me wakeful ! 


Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 




ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


For ever, and for ever, they conspire 




Disperse then to your posts ; be firm and vigilant ; 


Against the people, to abuse their hands 




Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 


To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 




This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 


Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 




Watch for the signal, and then march : I go 


On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 




To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 


Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 




His separate charge : the Doge will now return 


Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; 't is great. 




To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 


And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 




We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 


A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 




CALENDARO. 


DOGE. 




Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to you 


And is it then decided ? must they die ? 




Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 




DOGE. 


Who? 




No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 


DOGE. 




Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey, 


My own friends by blood and courtesy. 




Till nobler gam*^ is auarried ; his offence 


And many deeds and days— the senators? 




Was a mere eouuition of the vice, 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 




The general corruption generated 


You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just one. 




By the foul aristocracy ; he could not— 


DOGE. 




He dared not in more honourable days 


Ay, so it seems, and so it is to ynu ; 




Have risk'd it ! I have merged all private wrath 


You are a patriot, a plebeian Gracchus — 




Against him, ir the thought of our great purpose. 


The rebel's oracle — the people's tribune — 




A slave iTi?x,o me — I require his punishment 


I blame you not, you act in your vocation ; 




From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 


They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised yotii , 




The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 


So they have vie : but you ne'er spake with them ; 




CALENDARO. 


You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 




Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 


You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 




Which consecrates our undertaking more, 


You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 




I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 


Nor held a revel in their company ; 




I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 


Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smil> 




DOGE. 


In social interchange for yours, nor trusted, 




Fou would but lop the hand, and I the head ; 


Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 




You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 


These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs. 




You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 


The elders of the council ; I remember 




I cannot pause on individual hate. 


When all our locks were like the raven's wing, 




In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 


As we went forth to take cur prey around 




Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 


The isles wrung from the false Mahometan : 




Without distinction, as it fell of yore, 


And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood 




Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' ashes. 


Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 




ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 




Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 


Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 




A moment to accompany the Doge 


A child ; if you are not in second childhood 




To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 


Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 




Hav(! been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 


Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I 'd ralb« 




To V here my allotted band is under arms. 


Forego even now, or fail in our intent. 




CALENDARO. 


Than see the nan I venerate subside 




Farewell, then, until dawn. 


From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 




ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


You have '^een blood in battle, shed it, both 




Success go with you ! 


Your own tnd that of others : can you shrink then 




CONSPIRATORS. 


From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 




Wc \<i\\ not fail— away ! My lord, farewell ! 


Who but give back what they have draJn'd from millions ? 




\Thf rousjjirators aalute the Doge and Isf.ael Ber- 


DOGE. 




TTOcic, and retire, headed by Philip C alendaro. 


Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on blow 




I'h PoGE and Israel Bertuccio remain. 


I will divide with you ; think not I waver : 





MARINO FALIERO. 



265 



A-h ! no ; it is the certainty of all 

Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 

But let these last and lingermg thoughts have way, 

To which you only and the night are conscious, 

A.nd both regardless : when the hour arrives, 

'T is mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow, 

Which shall unpeople many palaces, 

Aud hew the highest genealogic trees 

Oown to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit, 

And crush their blossoms into barrenness ; 

TIds will I — must I — have I sworn to do. 

Nor aught can turn me from my destiny : 

But still I quiver to behold what I 

Must be, and think what I have been! Bear with me. 

ISRAEL EERTUCCIO. 

Re-man your breast ; I feel no such remorse, 
I understand it not : why should you change ? 
You acted, and you act on your free will. 

DOGE. 

Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 

Else 1 should stab thee on the spot, to save 

A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder ; 

Yon feel not — you go to this butcher-work 

As if these high-born men were steers for shambles! 

When all is over, you '11 be free and merry, 

And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 

But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 

In this surpassing massacre, shall be. 

Shall see, and feel — oh God I oh God! 'tis true, 

And thou dost well to answer that it was 

" My own free will and act ;" and yet you err, 

For I ii)ill do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 

Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 

And yet I act no more on my free will. 

Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 

But there is hell within me and around. 

And, like the demon who believes and trembles, 

Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 

Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 

To gather the retainers of our house. 

Doubt not. Saint Mark's great bell shall v.'ake all Venice, 

Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 

Be broad upon the Adriatic, there 

Shall be a voice of r/eepipg, which shall drown 

The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 

I am resolved — come on. 

ISRAEL EERTUCCIO. 

With all my soul ! 
Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Remember what these men have deult to thee. 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung you 
To punish a few traitors to the people ! 
Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Si eno. 

DOGE. 

Man, thou hast struck upon the chord which jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

[Exeunt. 
2a2 39 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

Palazzo of the Patrician Lioni. Lioni laying astdn 
the mask and cloak which the Venetian JSokles wort 
in public^ attended by a Domestic. 

LIONI. 

I will to rest, right weary of this revel, 
The gayest we have held for many moons. 
And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not ; 
There came a heaviness across my heart, 
Which in the lightest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye and hand in hand united. 
Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me, 
And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not be ; 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear. 
Though low and far. as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark ; 
So that I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and Avill v/oo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

ANTONIO. 

Yes, my lord ; 
Command you no refreshment? 

LIONI. 

Nought, save sleep, 
Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 

[Eodt Antonio 
Though my breast feels too anxious ; I v/ill try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits ; 'tis 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave. 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness. 

[ Goes to an open lattictk. 
And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls. 
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light. 
Which show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
There Age essaying to recall the past, 
After long striving for the hues of j'outh 
At the sad labour of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Prankt forth in all the pride of ornament, 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'a. 
There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such 
Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
And so shall wasts them till the sunrise streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should do* 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wino- 



The ganands, the rose odours, and the flowers - 
The sparkling eyes and flashing ornaments — 
The white arms and the raven hair— the braids 
And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the necklace, 
An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
rho eye like what it circled ; the thin robes 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heaven ; 
The many twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
All the delusion of the dizzy scene, 
Its false and true enchantments — art and nature, 
Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
The sight of beaxity as the parch'd pilgrim's 
On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
A lucid lake to his eludi^d thirst, 
4re gone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 
Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 
Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
And the great element, which is to space 
What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
Soften'd with the first breathings of the spring ; 
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marb'ies, 
Like altars ranged along the broad canal. 
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
Rear'd up from out ihs waters, scarce less strangeij 
Than those more massy and mysterious giants 
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 
Which point m Egypt's plcins to times that have 
No other record. All is gentle : nought 
Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
The ! inklings of some vigilant guitars 
Of sleepless lovers tu a wakeful mistress, 
And cautious opening of the casement, showing 
That he is not unheard ; while her young hand, 
Fair as the moonhght of which it seems part, 
So delicately white, it trembles in 
The act of opening the forbidden lattice, 
To let in love through music, makes his heart 
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; — the dash 
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas, 
And the responsive voices of the choir 
Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 
Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto ; 
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire. 
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city. 
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! 
I thank thee, night! for thou nast chased away 
Those horrid bodcments which, amidst the throng, 
I • ouM not dissipate : and, with the blessing 
Ol ill" benign and quiet influence, 
jS'cw wi'u I to my couch, although to rest 

Is iimost wronging ssuch a night as this 

. [A knocking is heard from without. 
Hu'k ! wnat is that? or who at such a moment ? 
Enter Antonio. 

ANTONIO. 

My irx-d, a man without, on u; gent business, 
hu('lores to be admitted. 



LIONI. 

Is he a stranger ? 

ANTONIO. 

His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

LIONI. 

'T is a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing 
And yet there is slight peril: 'tis not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at ; still. 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 't will be wise to use some caution. 
Adnut him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be ? 
Eocit Antonio, and returns with Bertram mujjled. 

BERTRAM. 

My good lord Lioni, 
I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 

LIONl. 

It seems the voice of Bertram — go, Antonio. 

[Eocit Antonio- 
Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

BERTRAM [discovering himself). 
A boon, my noble patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make him happy. 

LIONI. 

Thou hast known m« 
Prom bovhocd, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ero thy request was heard, but that the hour. 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
What has occurred, some rash and sudden broJ? — 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guaranty thy safety ; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

BERTRAM. 

My lord, I thank you ; but 

LIONI. 

But what? You have i?5j 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
I would not slay — but then I must not save thee I 
He who has shed patrician blood 

BERTRAM. 

I come 
To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life : since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sw-rr* 
And is about to take, instead of sand. 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass !— 
Go not tkou forth to-morrow ! 

LIONI. 

Wherefo'e not?- 
What means this menace / 



MARINO 


PALIERO 2C7 


BERTRAM. 


BERTRAM. 


Do not seek its meaning, 


Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 


But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 


I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 


Whate'er be stirring ; though the roar of crowds— 


We sprung, and you, devoted to the stale. 


The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 


As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 


The groans of men— the clash of arms— the sound 


Was left unto the labours of the humble. 


Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 


Still you forsook me not : and if my fortunes 


Peal m one wide alarum ! — Go not forth 


Have not been towering, 't was no fault of him 


Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 


Who oft-times rescued and supported me 


Till I return ! 


When struggling with the tides of circumstance 


LIONI. 


Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 


Again, what does this mean ? 


Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 


BERTRAM. 


Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 


Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 


Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ! 


Thou boldest dear on earlh or heaven— by all 


LIONI. 


The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 


Why, what hast thou to say against. the senate? 


To emulate them, and to leave behind 


BERTRAM. 


Descendants worthy both of them and thee— 


Nothing. 


By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory— 


LIONI. 


By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 


I know that there are angry spirits 


By all the good deeds thou hast done to me. 


And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason. 


Good I would now repay with greater good, 


Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 


Remain within — trust to thy household gods 


Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 


And to my word for safety, if thou dost 


Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians. 


As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost! 


And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns. 


LIONI. 


Thou herdest not with such : 't is true, of late 


I am indeed already lost in wonder : 


I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 


Surely thou ravest ! what have / to dread ? 


To lead a temperate Hfe, and break thy bread 


Who are my foes ? or, if there be such, why 


With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect 


Ai-t thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or, if so leagued, 


What hath come to thee? in thy hollow eye 


Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 


And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions. 


And not before? 


Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 


BERTRAM. 


To waste thee. 


I cannot answer this. 


BERTRAM. 


Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning ? 


Rather shame and sorrow light 


LIONI. 


On the accursed tyranny which rides 


I was not bom to shrink from idle threats, 


The very air in Venice, and makes men 


The cause of which I know not : at the hour 


Madden as in the last hours of the plague 


Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 


Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 


Be found among the absent. 


LIONI. 


BERTRAM. 


Some villains have been tampering with thee, Bertrasn 


Say not so ! 


This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 


Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 


Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection , 


LIONI. 


But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 


I am , nor is there aught which shall impede me ! 


And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 


BERTRAM. 


As vice and villany would put thee to: 


Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul .'—Farewell 


Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my na u^o•- 


{Going. 


What is it thou and thine are bound to do. 


LIONI. 


Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 


Stay— there is more in this than my own safety 


Of him who was a friend unto thy fatJier, 


Which makes me call thee back ; we must not part thus: 


So that our good-will is a heritage 


><ertram, I have known thee long. 


We should bequeath to our posterity 


BERTRAM. 


Such as ourselves received it, or augmented , 


From childhood, signer. 


I say, what is it thou must do, that I 


fou have been my protector : in the days 


Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 


Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets. 


Like a sick girl ? 


Or, lather, is not yet taught to remember 


BERTRAM. 


fts cold prerogative, we play'd together ; 


Nay, question me no further : 


Our s])orts, our smiles, our tears, were mingled ofl ; 


I must be gone 


>Ty father was your father's client, I 


LIONI. 


His son's scarce less than foster-brother ; years 


And I be murder'd ! — say, 


Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! — 


Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertrau* ' 


Oh God I the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 


BERTRAM. 


LIONI. 


Who talks of murder? what said I of murder ' 


Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten them. 


'T is false ! I did not utier such a wo'd 





268 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIONI. 

I'hoii didst iioi ; but from out thy wolfish eye, 

So changed fiom what I knew it, there glares forth 

The gladiator. If my life's thine object, 

Take it — I am unarni'd, — and ihen away! 

] would not hold my breath on such a tenure 

As the capricious mercy of such things 

As thou and those who have set thee to thy task-work. 

BERTRAM. 

Sooner than spill thy bloo.l, I peril mine ; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

LIONI. 

Ay, is it even so? Excuse me, Bertram; 
I am not worthy to be singled out 
From such exalted hecatombs — who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the danger ? 

BERTRAM. 

Venice, and all that she inherits, are 

Divided like a house against itself. 

And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 

LIONI. 

More mystenes, and awful ones ! But now, 

Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 

Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 

And thou art safe and glorious ; for 't is more 

Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too — 

Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 

How would it look to see upon a spear 

The head of him whose heart was open to thee, 

Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people? 

And such may be my doom; for here I swear, 

Whate'er the peril or the penalty 

Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 

Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 

The consequence of all which led thee here ! 

BERTRAM. 

is there no way to save thee ? minutes fly. 
And thou art lost ! thou ! my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honour I 

LIONI. 

Where 
Gun lie the honour in a league of murder? 
And who are traitors save unto the state? 

BERTRAM. 

A league is still a compact, and more bmding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for law ; 
And in my mind, there is no traitor Hke 
He whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth, 

LIONI. 

And who will strike the steel to mine ? 

BERTRAM. 

Not I; 
I coulil have v.-ound my soul up to all things 
Save this. T'hou must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many Uves, 
N'ay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
I dc ?djure tnee, pass not o'er thy threshold! 

LIONI. 

(t ft n f9in- -OiiB moment I go forth. 



BERTRAM. 

Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
I will disclose — ensnare— betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 

LIONI. 

Say rather, thy friend's saviour and the state's ! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay. 
Nobility itself I guaianty thee. 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

BERTRAM. 

1 have thought again : it must not be — I love thee — 
Thou knowesl it — that I stand here is the proof. 
Not least though last ; but, having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell ! — we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 

LIONI. 

What, ho ! Antonio — Pedro — to the door ! 

See that none pass — arrest this man ! 

Enter Antonio and other armed Domestics, who seht 

BERTRAM. 

LIONI (continues). 

Take car« 
He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak. 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro: — Fear not, Bertram ; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weal. 

BERTRAM. 

Where wouldst toou 
Bear me a prisoner? 

LIONI. 

Firstly, to " The Ten ;" 
Next, to the Doge. 

BERTRAM. 

To the Doge? 

LIONI. 

Assuredly ; 
Is he not chief of the state ? 

BERTRAM. 

Perhaps at sunrise 

LIONI. 

What mean you? — but we'll know anon. 

BERTRAM. 

Art sure ? 

LIONI. 

Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
They fail, you know "The Ten" and their tribunal, 
And that Saint Mark's has dungeons, and the dungeons 
A rack. 

BERTRAM. 

Applj' to it before the da^vn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One moie such word, 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
Ye think to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

ANTONIO. 

The bark is ready, 
My lord, and all prepared. 

LIONI. 

Look to the prisone* . 
Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeuni, 



MARINO FaLIERO. 



269 



SCENE II. 

Th£ Ducal Palace — the Doge's Apartment. 
The Doge and his nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

DOGE. 

Are all the people of our house in muster? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

They are array'd, and eager for the signal, 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.* 
I come for your last orders. 

DOGE. 

It had been 
As well had there been time to have got together 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Methinks, my lord, 't is better as it is ; 

A sudden swelling of our retinue 

Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty, 

The vassals of that district are too rude 

And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 

The secret discipline we need for such 

A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

DOGE. 

True ; but when once the signal has been given, 

These are the men for such an enterprise : 

These city slaves have all their private bias, 

Their prejudice against or for this noble. 

Which may induce them to o'erdo, or spare 

Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants. 

Serfs of my country of Val di Marino, 

Would do the bidding of their lord without 

Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 

Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 

A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 

They are not used to start at those vain names, 

Nor bow the knee before a civic senate : 

A chief in armour is their suzerain. 

And not a thing in robes. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

We are enough ; 
And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate, I will answer. 

DOGE. 

Well, 
The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service. 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants ; 
They made the sun shine through the host of Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents. 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there 's much to do, you '11 wish with me 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

BERTl'CCIO FALIERO. 

Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolved 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

DOGE. 

Such blows 
Must be struck suddenly or nr ver. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 
A moment to the feehngs of old days, 
I was most fain to strike ; and, firstly, that 
\ might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And, secondly because of all these men, 



Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 

I knew not well the courage or the faith : 

To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor to us, 

As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 

But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 

They must on for their ovm sakes ; one stroke struck. 

And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 

Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 

Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance. 

Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sight 

Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more. 

As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel j 

And you will find a harder task to quell 

Than urge them when they have commenced ; but ttli 

That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 

Is capable of turning them aside. — 

How goes the night ? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Almost upon the dawn. 

DOGE. 

Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted ? 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

By this time they are ; 
But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in person. 

DOGE. 

'T is well.— Will the morn never put to rest 

These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 

I am settled and bound up, and being so 

The very effort which it cost me to 

Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire 

Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept. 

And trembled at the thought of this dread duty j 

But now I have put down all idle passion. 

And look the growing tempest in the face. 

As doth the pilot of an admiral galley ; 

Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman?) it hath oeen 

A greater struggle to me, than when nations 

Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight, 

Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 

Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 

The rank polluted current from the veins 

Of a few bloated despots needed more 

To steel me to a purpose suoh as made 

Timoleon immortal, than to face 

The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

DOGE. 

It was ever th»'6! 
With me ; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around me : tnis 
They knew who made me what I am, and trust «rf 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent 
But they were not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection. 
And not an impulse of mere anger : though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souJ» 
Oft do a pubUc right with private wrong. 



^270 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And justify their deeds unto themselves.— 
Methinks the day breaks^ -is it not so ? look, 
Tliine eyes are clear with youth ;— the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me, 
The sea looks grayer through tlie lattice. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

True, 
The morn is dappling in the sky. 

DOGE. 

Away, then! 
See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength ; here I will meet you — 
The Sixteen and their com])anies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself by the great gate, 
I would not trust " The Ten " except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut tlie more careless swords of those leagued with us. 
Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark ! 
The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
Saint jMark and liberty !" — Now — now to action ! 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never! 

DOGE. 

Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace — 
Speed, for the day grows broader — Send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound— sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 
DOGE {solus). 

He is gone, 
And on each footstep moves a life. — 'Tis done. 
Now the destroying angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
And for a moment poised in middle air. 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings. 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day ! 
That slowly walk'st the waters ! march— march on— 
I would not smile i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ' 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too. 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious: 
Now thou mu^t v/ear an unmix'd crimson ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine. 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
I, who was named ])reserver of the city ? 
I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings. 
And fame and length of days — to see this day ? 
But this day, black within the calendar. 
Shall he succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Ooop Dandolo survived to nmety summers 
To vanquisn empires and refuse their crown; 

will resign a crown, and make the state 
Renevv its freedom — but oh ! by wbdi means? 
The noble end must justuy them — What 
Are u few drops of human blood ? 't is false, 
The blood of tyrants is not human ? they. 



Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours, 

Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 

Which they have made so populous. — Oh world I 

Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs. 

That we must work by crime to punish crime ? 

And slay as if Death had but this one gate. 

When a few years would make the sword superfluous . 

And I, upon the verge of the unknown realm, 

Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 

I must not ponder this. 

[A paus& 
Hark ! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise ! 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
Why pauses it? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal. 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell. 
Which never knells but for a princely death. 
Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfullest and last. 
Sound till the strong tower rock ! — What, silent still? 
I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
To be the centre of re-union to 
The oft-discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering or the weak, in case of conflict: 
For if they should do battle, 't will be here, 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken ; 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 
The master-mover. — Hark ! he comes — he comes. 
My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings? Is he marching? Hath he sped? — 
They here I — all's lost — yet will I make an effort. 
Enter a Signor of the Night, ^ with Guards, etc. 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

DOGE. 

Me! 

Thy prince, of treason ! — Who are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT {showing his Order). 
Behold my order from the assembled Ten. 

DOGE. 

And where are they, and why assembled ? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty 's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

Duke, it may not be ; 
Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

DOGE. 

You dare to disobey me then ? 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

I serve 
The state, and needs must serve it faithfully. 
My warrant is tlie will of those who rule it. 

DOGE. 

And till that warrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, as 7iow applied, 



MARIJNO FALIERO. 



271 



Kebellious— »{ast thou weigh'd well thy life's worth, 
That thus you dare assume a la%vless function ? 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

*T is not my office to reply, but act — 

I am placed here as guard upon thy person, 

And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

DOGE (aside). 
I rr-ust gain time — So that the storm-bell sound, 
All may be well yet — Kinsman, speed — speed — speed ! 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
Woe to the vanquish'd ! be they prince and people, 
Or slaves and senate — 

[The great hell of St. Marhh tolls. 
Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 

DOGE [aloud). 
Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you, ye hirelings, 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear. 
It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal! 
Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives? 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

Confusion! 
Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all 's lost, 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose. 
Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the tower ; the rest remain with me. 

[Exit apart of the Guard. 

DOGE. 

Wretch! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, implore it ; 
It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send fhy miserable ruffians forth ; 
They never shall return. 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

So let it be ! 
They die then in their duty, as will I. 

DOGE. 

Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler game 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance. 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

And learn thou to be captive — It hath ceased, 

[ The hell ceases to toll. 
The traitorous signal, which was to have set 
The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 
The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 

DOGE {after a pause). 
All 's silent, and all 's lost ! 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

Now, Doge, denounce me 
As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty ? 

DOGE. 

Peace, thou thing ! 
Thcu hast done a worthy deed, and earn'd the price 
^f blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate. 
As thou said'st even now — then do thine office. 
But let it be in silence, as behoves thee. 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 

SIGNOR OF THE NIGHT. 

aid not mean to fail in the respect 
Owe to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 



DOGE [aside). 
There now is nothing left me save to die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fallen. 
And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
To miss it thus ! 

Enter other Signors of the Night with Bertuici i 
Faliero prisoner. 
second signor. 
We took him in the act 
Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus begun to sound. 

first signor. 

Are all the passes 
Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 

second signor. 
They are — besides, it matters not ; the chiefs 
Are all in chair.s, and some even now on trial — 
Their followers are dispersed, and many tanen. 

bertuccio faliero. 
Uncle! 

DOGE. 

It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 
The gloiy hath departed from our house. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

Who would have deem'd it ? — Ah ! one moment soonc , 

DOGE. 

That moment would have changed the face of ages ; 
This gives us to eternit)'- — We 11 meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success. 
But who can make their own minds all in all 
Equal to every fortune. D oop not, 't is 
But a brief passage — I would go alone, 
Yet if they send us, as 't is like, together, 
Let us go worthy o^ our sires and selves. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

I shall not shame you, uncle. 

FIRST SIGNOR. 

Lords, our orders 
Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 
Until the Council call ye to your trial. 

DOGE. 

Our trial ! will they keep their mockery up 

Even to the last? but let them deal upon us 

As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 

'Tis but a game of mutual homicides, 

Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 

Have won with false dice ? — Who hath been our Judas? 

FIRST SIGNOR. 

I am not warranted to answer that. 

BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 

I '11 answer for thee — 't is a certain Bertram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 

DOGE. 

Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what vile tooiu 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature, 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Rewards and honours, and be stampt in stoiy 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph. 
While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, wa? caj»< 
From the Tarpeian. 

FIRST SIGNOR. 

He aspired to treason 
And sought to rule the state. 



"272 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


DOGE. 


Avowal of your treason : on the verge 


He saved the state, 


Of that dread gulf which none re[tass, the truth 


An J sought but to reform what he revived — 


Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 


But this is idle— Come, sirs, do your work. 


Say, then, what was your motive? 


FIRST SIG>'OR. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


Nob'e Bertuccio, we must now remove you 


Justice I 


Into an inner chamber. 


BENINTENDE. 


BERTUCCIO FALIERO. 


What 


Farewell, uncle ! 


Your object? 


If we shall meet again in life I know not, 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO 


But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 


Freedom ! 


DOGE. 


BENINTENDE. 


Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go forth, 


You are brief, sir. 


And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail'd in ! 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


They cannot quench the memory of those 


So my life grows : I 


Who would have hurl'd them from their guilty thrones, 


Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 


And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 


EENINTEN'DE. 




Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 




ACT V. 


To brave your judges to postpone the sentence ? 




ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


SCENE I. 


Do you be brief as 1 am, and, believe me. 


'ITie Hall of the Council of Ten assembled with the 


I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 


additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the Con- 


BEXINTENDE. 


spirators for the Treason of ^Ia.kiso Faliero, com- 


Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 


posed v:hat was called the Giuntn. — Guards, Offi- 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


cers, etc., eic— Israel Bertuccio and Philip 


Go, ask your racks what they have wrung from us, 


C alexdaro as Prisoners. — Bertram, Lioni, and 


Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left, 


Witnesses, etc. 


And some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd limbs' : 


The Chief of the Ten, Benintende. 


But this ye dare not do • for if we die there — 


benintende. 


And you have left us little lite to spend 


TTiere now rests, after such conviction of 


Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 


Their manifold and manifest offences. 


Ye lose the public spectacle with which 


But to pronounce on these obdurate men 


You vvould appal your slaves to further slavery ! 


The sentence of the law: a grievoHS task 


Groans are not words, nor agony assent. 


To those who hear and those who speak. Alas ! 


Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 


That it should fall to me, and that my days 


Should overcome the soul into a lie. 


Of office should be stigmatized through all 


For a short respite — Must we bear or die ? 


The years of coming time, as bearing record 


BEMXTENDE. 


To this most foul and complicated treason 


Say, who were your accomplices? 


Against a just and free state, known to all 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


The earth as being the Chnstian bulwark 'gainst 


The senate ! 


The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 


BEMXTEXDE. 


The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 


What do you mean ? 


A city which has open'd India's wealth 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


To Europe; the last Roman refuge from ^ 


Ask of the suffering people, 


O'erwhelming Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 


Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 


Proud Genoa's prouder rival I 'T is to sap 


BEXIXTEXDE. 


The throne of such a city, these lost men 


You know the Doge ? 


Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives— 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. ! 


So let them die the death. 


I served with him at Zara 


ISRAEL bertuccio. 


Tn the field, when you were pleading here your way 


We are prepared ; 


To present office ; we exposed our hves, 


^ our racks have done that for us. Let us die. 


While you but hazarded the lives of others, 


benixtende. 


Alike by accusation or defence ; 


11 ye have that to say which would obtain 


And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 


Abatement of )'our punishment, the Giunta 


Through his great aciiuiis, and the senate's insu'tj. ! 


Will hear you ; i. you have aught to confess, 


BEXIXTEXDE. 


Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 


You have held conference with him ? 


ISRAEL PERTUCCIO. 


ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 


♦Ve stand to hear, and not to speak. 


I am weary — 


BENIXTENDE. 


Even wearier of your questions than your tortures 


Your crimes 


I pray you pass to j.idgment. 


Are fully proved by jour accomplices. 


BEXINTENDE. 


And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 


It is comii 5.— 


Yef. we would hear from your own lips complete 


And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 


— — - — ■ — — — ■ — — — — — — — — — — — — ——————————— — 1 



f lave you to say whj' you should not be doom'd ? 

CA LEND ARC. 

I never was a man of many words, 

And now have few left worth the utterance. 

BENINTENDE. 

A further application of yon engine 
Mav change your tone. 

CALENDARO. 

Most true, it will do so ; 
A former application did so ; but 
It will not change my words, or, if it did 

BENINTENDE. 

What then ? 

calejTdaro. 
Will my avowal on yon rack 
Stand good in law ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Assuredly. 

CALENDARO. 

Whoe'er 
The culprit be whom I accuse of treason? 

BENINTENDE. 

Wiihout doubt, he will be brought up to trial. 

CALENDARO. 

And on this testimony would he perish ? 

BENINTENDE. 

So your confession be detail'd and full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life. 

CALENDARO. 

Then look well to thy proud self, President! 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 

ONE OF THE GIUNTA. 

Lord President, 'twere best to proceed to judgment, 
There is no more to be drawn from these men. 

BENINTENDE. 

Unnappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite- 
Guards! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday,® 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let llicm be justified : and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment^ 
To the full view of the assembled people ! 
And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 

THE GIUNTA. 

Amen! 

ISRAEL BERTCJCCIO. 

Signers, farewell ! we shall not all again 
Meet m one place. 

BENINTENDE. 

And lest they should essay 
To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards! let their mouths be gagg'd,'' even in the act 
Of execution. — Lead them hence ! 

CALENDARO. 

What ! must we 
Not even say farewell to som.e fond friend, 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

BENINTENDE. 

A priest is waiting in the ante-chamber ; 
But, for your fiiends, such interviews would be 
Painful to ihem, and useless aU to you. 
2 B 40 



CALENDARO. 

I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least. 
All those who had not heart to risk their lives 
Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deeni'd 
That, in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying. 
Would not now be denied to us ; but since 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Even let them have their way, brave Calendaro ' 

What matter a few syllables ? let 's die 

Without the slightest show of favour from them ; 

So shall our blood more readily arise 

To Heaven against them, and more testify 

To their atrocities, than could a volume 

Spoken or written of our dying words ! 

They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 

Our very silence— let them live in fear ! — 

Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 

Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 

CALENDARO. 

Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me. 

It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 

The coward Bertram, would 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

Peace, Calendaro! 
What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 

BERTRAM. 

Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
I did not seek this task ; 't was forced upon me : 
Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus ! 

ISRAEL BERTUCCIO. 

I die and pardon thee ! 

CALENDARO {spiiting at him). 
1 die and scorn thee ! 
[Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calem 
DARO, Guards, etc. 

BENINTENDE. 

Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 

'T is time that we proceed to pass our sentence 

Upon the greatest traitor upon record 

In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 

The proofs and prof _,ss are complete ; the time 

And crime require a quick procedure : shall 

He now be cail'd in to receive the award ? 

THE GIUNTA. 

Ay, ay. 

BENINTENDE. 

Avogadon, order that the Doge 
Be brought before the council. 

ONE OF THE GIUNTA. 

And the rest, 
When shall they be brought up ? 

BENINTENDE. 

When all the chiet» 
Have been disposed of. Some have fled tc Chiozza ■ 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them. 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 
As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treason 'gainst the senate. 
Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Gnaras, etc. ne 

BENINTENDE. 

Doge — for such still you are, and by the la\v 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall comt; 
When you must dotf the ducal bonnet fron' 



274 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That head, wh.ch could not wear a crown more noble 

Than enipin.s can confer, in quiet honour, 

But it must plot to overthrow your peers, 

Wlio made you what you are, and quench in blood 

A city's glory- • wc have laid already 

Before you in your chamber at full length, 

By the Avogadori, all the proofs 

Which have appear'd against you ; and more ample 

Ne'er rcar'd thrir sanguinary shadows to 

Confront a traitor. What have you to say 

In your defence ? 

DOGE. 

What shall I say to ye. 
Since my defence must be your condetnnation ? 
You are at once otTenders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

BENINTENDE. 

Your chief accomplices 
Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 

DOGE. 

And who be they ? 

EENIKTENDE. 

In number many ; but 
The first row stands before you in the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question him ? 

DOGE {looking at him contemptuously). 
No. 

BENINTENDE. 

And two others, Israel Bcrtuccio, 
And Phihp Calendar©, have admitted 
1 heir fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

DOGE. 

And where are they ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Gone to their place, and now 
Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 

DOGE. 

Ah! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone? 
And the quicK Cassius of the arsenal?— 
How did they meet their doom? 

BE^UNTEJ^DE. 

Think of your own ; 
It is Approaching. You decline to plead, then ? 

DOGE. 

I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 

Can recognise your legal power to try me : 

Snow me the law ! 

EENIXTENDE. 

On great emergencies, 
The law imst be remodell'd or amended : 
Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 
That nature coul.l be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms ? 
You*- sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such naught traitors, 
As wou.d with treason mount to tyranny ; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
Tliey can convert .i lo a iwo- edged sword ! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 
Wha? 's nobler tna»' the signory of" Venice ? 



DOGE. 

The signory of Venice ! You betray'd me — 

You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 

From my equality with you in birth, 

And my superiority in action, 

You drew me from my honourable toils 

In distant lands — on flood — in field — in cities — 

You singled me out like a victim, to 

Stand orown'd, but bound and helpless, at the aitai 

Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 

I sought not — wish'd not — dream'd not the election. 

Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'dj 

But found, on my arrival, that besides 

The jealous vigilance which always led you 

To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents. 

You had, even in the interregnum of 

My journey to the capital, curtail'd 

And mutilated the few privileges 

Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 

Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 

By the pollution of your ribaldry. 

And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you — 

Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

BENINTENDE {interrupting him). 
INIichel Steno 
Is here in virtue of his office, as 
One of the Forty ; " The Ten" having craved 
A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present, he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Doge, who should protect the law 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himoelf denies and violates ! 

DOGE. 

His PUNISHMENT ! I rather see hin there, 
Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation. 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of jusiic* 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crin^ej 
'T was purity compared with your protection. 

BE-VINTENDE. 

And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 
With three parts of a century of years 
And honours on his head, could thus allov/ 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 

DOGE. 

A spark creates the flame ; 't is the last drop 
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was fi-.U 
Already : you oppress'd the prince and peopl'j ; 
I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 
The price of such success would have been glory. 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
As would have made Venetian history 
Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse, 
When they were freed, and flourish'd ages after, 
And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : 
Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
Is present infamy and death — th« future 
Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free ; 
Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause, not ; 
I would have shown no mercy, and I seel", nono , 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, 



MARINO FALIERO. 



27 



And b?ing lost, taKe what I would have taken! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs ; 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 
As you have done upon my heart while living. 

BENIXTENDE. 

You do ce^fess then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal? 

DOGE. 

I confess to have fail'd : 
Fortune is female ; from my youth her favours 
Were not withheld ; the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

BENINTENDE. 

You do not then in aught arraign our equity? 

DOGE. 

Noble Venetians ! stir me not with questions. 

I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 

Have something of the blood of brighter days, 

And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 

Further interrogation, which boots nothing. 

Except to turn a trial to debate. 

I shall but answer that which will offend you. 

And please your enemies — a host aheady : 

'T is true, these sullen walls should yield no echo ; 

But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
Yet could not bear m silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true words are things, 
And dying men's are things which long outlive. 
And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine. 
If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel, 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath. 
Let me die calmly ; you i lay grant me this ; — 
I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself, 
And sentence from the court 

BENINTENDE. 

This full admission 
Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth. 

DOGE. 

The torture ! you have put me there already 
Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may ; these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There 's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 
£nter an Officer. 

. OFFICER. 

N'oble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 

BENINTENDE. 

Say, conscript fathers,^ shall she be admitted? 

ONE OF THE GIUNTA. 

She may have revelations of importance 
rJnto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

BENINTENDE. 

Is this the general will ? 



ALL. 



It is. 



DOGE. 

Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 
Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honour, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I 'II pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
The Duchess enters. 

BENINTENDE. 

Lady! this just tribunal has resolved. 
Though the request be strange, to grant it, and, 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues 
But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
Place a chair instantly. 

ANGIOLINA. 

A moment's faintness — 
'T is past ; I pray you pardon me, I sit not 
In presence of my prince, and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

BENINTENDE. 

Your pleasure, lady ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear 
And see be sooth, have reach'd mc, and I come 
To know the worst ; even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken. 
With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 
BENINTENDE {after a puuse) . 
Spare us, and spare thyself the repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to Heaven and man ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yet speak ; I cannot-^ 
I cannot — no — even now believe these things ; 
Is he condemn'd ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Alas! 

ANGIOLINA. 

And was he guilty ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Lady ! the natural distraction of 

Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the questio!< 

Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 

I Against a just and paramount tribunal 

i Were deep offence. But question even the Doge , 

I And if he can deny the proofs, believe h'm 

I Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Is it so ? 
My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's fneni' - 
The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
Unsay the words of this man ' — Thou art snent 

B«-NINTENT1E. 

He hath already own'd to his own guilt* 
Nor, as thou seest, dotli he detiy it now. 



576 BYRON'S WORKS. 


ANGIOLINA. 


Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part. 


Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few years, 


Could cancel the inexorable past! 


Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days! 


But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 


( >ne day of baffled crime must not efface 


Say farewell, and in peace: with full contrition 


Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 


I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 


BE^'INTENDE. 


And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 


His doom must be fulfiU'd without remission 


ANGIOLINA. 


Of time or penalty — 't is a decree. 


Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 


ANGIOLINA. 


I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 


He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. 


Inform the ribald Sleno, that his words 


BENINTENDE. 


Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughrei 


Not in this case with justice. 


Further than to create a moment's pity 


ANGIOLINA. 


For such as he is ; would that others had 


Alas ! signer, 


Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 


He who is only just is cruel ; who 

Upon the earth would live, were all judged justly? 


My honour to a thousand lives, could such 


Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
A single life of others lost for that 


BENINTENDE. 

His punishment is safety to the state. 


Which nothing human can impugn— the sense 
Of virtue, looking not to what is called 


ANGIOLINA. 


A good name for reward, but to itself. 


He was a subject, and hath served the state : 


To me the scorner's words were as the wind 


He was your general, and halh saved the state ; 


Unto the rock : but as there arc — alas ! 


He is your sovereign, and hath n-'ed the state. 


Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 


ONE OF THE COUNCIL. 


Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 


He is a traitor, and betray'd the state. 


To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance 


ANGIOLINA. 


More terrible than death here and hereafter ; 


And, but for him, there now had been no state 


Men whose vice is, to start at vice's scofTing, 


To save or to destroy ; and you, who sit 


And who, though proof against all blandishments 


There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 


Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 


Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 


When the proud name on which they pinnacled 


Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 


Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 


ONE OF THE COUNCIL. 


Of her high aiery ; let what we now 


No, lady, there are others who would die 


Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 


Rather than breathe in slavery ! 


To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 


ANGIOLINA. 


With beings of a higher order. Insects 


If there are so 


Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 


Within these walls, thou art not one of the number : 


I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave , 


The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 


A wife's dishonour was the bane of Troy; 


Is there no hope ? 


A wife's dishonour unking'd Rome for ever ; 


BENINTENDE. 


An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusiunu 


Lady, it cannot be. 


And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time j 


ANGIOLINA {turning to the Doge). 


An obscene gesture cost Caligula 


Then die, Faliero ! since it must be so ; 


His life, while earth yet bore his cruelties ; 


But with the sj)irit of my father's friend. 


A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish provirce; 


Thou hast been guilty of a great offence. 


And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 


Half-cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 


Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 


I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — 


A senate which hath stood eight hundred years. 


Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 


Discrown'd a prince, cut off" his crownless head, 


Have wept as they will cry unto their God 


And forged new fetters for a groaning people! 


For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 


Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 


Had it been fitting for thy name or mine. 


Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this. 


And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 


If it so please him — 't were a ()ride fit for him! 


Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 


But let him not insult the last hours of 


Thtn, as a prince, address thee to thy doom! 


Him, who, whate'er he now is, teas a hero, 


doge. 


By the intrusion of his very prayers ; 


I have h /ed too long not to know how to die ! 


Nothing of good can come from such a source. 


Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 


Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever 


Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 


We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 


Of jeamen to the surge : I would not take 


Of human baseness. Pardon is for men. 


A life eternal, granted at the hands 


And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 


C wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 


And no resentment; things like him must sting, 


1 soiJj^ht to free the groaning nations ! 


And higher beings suffer; 'tis the charter 


MICHEL STENO. 


Of hfe. The man who dies by the adder's fang 


Doge, 


May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger: 


A wotd with thee, and with this noble lady, 


'T was the worm's nature ; and some ' en aro wortn* 


Whom 1 fwve grievously oflended. Would 

_ ^ 


In soul, more tlian the hving itiings of lomba 



MARINO FALIERO. 



27 



DOGE {to BeNINTENDE). 

Signer, complete that which you deem your duty. 

EENINTEKDE. 

Before we can proceed upon that duty, 

We would request the princess to withdraw ; 

'T vvil] move her too much to be witness to it. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I know it will, and yet I must endure it ; 
For 't is a part of mine — I will not quit. 
Except by force, my husband's side, — Proceed ! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ! 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak ! 
I have that within which shall o'ermaster all. 

BENINTENDE. 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 

Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 

And sometime General of the Fleet and Army, 

Noble Venetian, many times and oft 

Entrus>.<}d by the state with high employments, 

Even *o the highest, listen to the sentence. 

Convict by mar.y witnesses and proofs, 

And by thine own confession, of the guilt 

Of treacherj' and treason, yet unheard of 

Until this trial — the decree is death. 

Thy goods are confiscate unto the state. 

Thy name is razed from out her records, save 

Upon a public day of thanksgiving 

For this our most miraculous deliverance, 

When thou art noted in our calendars 

With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes. 

And the great enemy of man, as subject 

Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted. 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath,— 

" This place is of Marino Faliero, 

Decapitated for his crimes." 

DOGE. 

IVhat crimes ? 
Were it not better to record the facts. 
So that the contemplator might approve. 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose ? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 

BENINTENDE. 

Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giant's Staircase, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested j 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shall he struck off; and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul ' 

DOGE. 

Is this the Giunta's sentence ? 



BENINTENDE. 



ft IS. 



I can endure it. 



DOGE. 

-And the time ? 



BENINTENDE. 

Must be immediate. — Make thj- peace vidth God ; 
Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 
2 B 2 



DOGE. 

I am already ; and my blood will rise 

To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it.- 

Are all my lands confiscated ? 

BENINTENDE. 

They are : 
And goods, and jewels, and all land of treasu'-e. 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 

DOGE. 

That 's harsh — I would have fain reserved the lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence, the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 
To portion them (leaving my city spoil. 
My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

BENINTENDE. 

These 
Lie under the state's ban, their chief, thy nephew 
In peril of his own life ; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd pnncess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Signors, 
I share not m your spoil ! From henceforth, Kno^-v 
I am devoted unto God alone, 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

DOGE. 

Come! 
The hour may be a hard one, but 't will end. 
Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 

BENINTENDE. 

You have nought to do except confess and die 
The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, 
And both await without. — But, above all. 
Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
Are now by thousands swarming at the gates, 
But these are closed : the Ten, the Avogadori, 
The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
And they are ready to attend the Doge. 

DOGE. 

The Doge ! 

BENINTENDE. 

Yes, Doge, thou hast hved and thou shalt die 

A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 

The separation of that head and trunk, 

That ducal crown and head shall be united. 

Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 

To plot with petty traitors ; not so we, 

Who in the very punishment acknowledge 

The prince. Thy vile accomplices have dieu 

The dog's death, and the wolf's ; hut thou shalt fab 

As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 

By those who feel a proud compassion for thee. 

And mourn even the inevitable death 

Provoked by thy wild wrath and regal fierceness* 

Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 

Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 

Thv guides to the place where first we were 

United to thee as thy subjects, and 

Thy senate ; and must now be parted from men 

As such for ever on the selfsame spot. — 

Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his ch mbei 



278 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


SCENE II. 


On my return from Rome, a mist of such 




Unwonted density went on before 


The Doge's Apartment. 


The bucentaur, like the columnal cloud 


The Doge ax prisoner, and the Duchess attending him. 


Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 


DOGE. 


The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 


Now that the priest is gone, 't were useless all 


Between the pillars ot Saint Mark's, wheie 'tis 


To linger out the miserable minutes ; 


The custom of the state to put to death 


Bui one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, 
Ard I will leave the few last grams of sand, 


Its criminals, instead of touching at 


The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is,— 


Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 


So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 


Stili falhng — I have done with Time. 


ANGIOLINA. 


ANGIOLINA. 


Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 


Alas! 


Such things. 


And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 


DOGE. 


And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 


And yet I find a comfort in 


Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 


The thought that these things are the worK of Fate ; 


Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd thine own. 


For I would rather yield to gods than men, 


DOGE. 


Or cling to any creed of destiny. 


Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 


Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 


Which shaped out for itself some great reverse; 


I know to be as worthless as the dust, 


The marvel is, it came not until now — 


And weak as worthless, more than instruments 


And yet it was foretold me. 


Of an o'er-ruling power ; they in themselves 


ANGIOLINA. 


Were all incapable — they could not be 


How foretold you? 


Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them! 


DOGE. 


ANGIOLINA. 


Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 


Employ the minutes left in aspirations 


[n memory, and yet they live in annals : 


Of a more healing nature, and in peace 


When 1 was in my youth, and served the senate 


Even with these wretches take thy flight to heaven. 


And signory as podesta and captain 


DOGE. 


Of the town of Treviso, on a day 


I am at peace : the peace of certainty 


Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 


That a sure hour will come, wlien their sons' sons. 


Convey 'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 


And this proud city, and these azure waters. 


By strange delay, and arrogant reply 


And ail which makes them eminent and bright, 


To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote him, 


Shall be a desolation and a curse. 


Until he reel'd beneath his holy burthen ; 


A hissing and a scoff unto the nations. 


And, as he rose from earth again, he raised 


A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean-Babel ! 


His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards Heaven. 


ANGIOLINA. 


Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from him. 


Speak not thus now : the surge of passion still 


He turn'd to me, and said, " The hour v^ill come 


Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 


When He thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow thee : 


Thyself and canst not injure them— be calmer. 


The glory shall depart from out thy house, 


DOGE. 


The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 


I stand within eternity, and see 


And in thy best m.aturity of mind, 


Into eternity, and I behold — 


A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee; 


Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 


Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 


For the last time— the days which I denounce 


In other men, or mellow into virtues ; . 


Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 


And majesty, which decks all other heads. 


And they who are indwellers. 


Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honours shall 


GUARD {coming forward). 


But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 


Doge of Venice, 


And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 


The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 


But not such death as fits an aged man." 


DOGE. 


Thus saying, he pass'd on.— That hour is come. 


Then farewell, Angiolina !— one embrace- 


ANGIOLINA. 


Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 


And with this warning couldst thou not have striven 


A fond but fatal husband— love my memory — 


To avert the fatal moment, and atone 


I would not ask so much for me still living. 


By peniiencR for that which thou hadst done? 


But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 


DOGE. 


Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 


1 own the words went to my heart, so much 


Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 


That I remember'd them amid the maze 


Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and namo. 


i)\' life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 


Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 


Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 


Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 


And 1 repented ; but 'twas not for me 


A little love, or friendship, or esteem. 


To pull m resolution: what must be 


No, not enough to extract an epilap>- 


i could not change, and would not fear. Nay, more 


From ostentatious kinsmen ; m one Mur 


'I'hMU cans*, net have forgot what all remember, 


I have uprooted all my fo'-mer lite 


That on mv day of landing h'^re as Doge, 


And outlived every thin?, except thy heart. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



279 



The pare, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
With uniinpair'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep Thou turn'st so pale — Alas ! she faints, 

She hath no breath, no pulse ! Guards ! lend your aid — 
I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death,' 
1 shall be with the Eternal — Call her women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand ! as cold as mine 
Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 
And take my last thanks. — I am ready now. 

[The attendants o/Axgiolixa enter and sur- 
round their mistress, who has fainted. — 
£xeunt the Dog£, Guards, etc., etc. 



SCENE III. 

The Court of the Ducal Palace: the outer gates we 
shut against the people. — The Doge enters in his 
ducaJ robes, in procession with the Council of T'en 
and nther Patricians, attended by the Guards, till 
they cvrrive at the top of the " Giant'' s Staircase"'' 
(where the Doges took the oaths); the Executioner is 
•icdioned there with his sword. On arriving, a Chief 
of tlie Ten takes off the ducal cap from the Doge's 
head. 

DOGE. 

Sf^, now the Doge is nothmg, and at last 

I am again Marino Faliero : 

'T is well to be so, though but for a moment. 

Here was I c rown'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven ! 

With how much more contentment I resign 

That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 

Than I received the fatal ornament. 

ONE OF THE TEN. 

Thou tremblest, Fahero ! 

DOGE. 

'T is with age, then.^ 

BENIXTENDE. 

Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend, 
Compatible with justice, to the senate? 

DOGE. 

I would com.mend my nephew to their mercy, 
IMy consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

BENINTENDE. 

They shall be cared for ; 
Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

DOGE. 

Unheard-of! ay, there's not a history 
But shov/s a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

,EESINTENDE. 

And who are they who fell iti such a cause ? 

DOGE. 

The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice — 
Agis and Fahero I 

EENIXTEJfDE. 

Hast thou more 
To utter or to do ? 

DOGE. 

May I speak? 

EENINTENDE. 



Thou may'st 3 



But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

DOGE. 

I speak to Time and to Eternity, 

Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 

Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 

I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 

Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner ! 

Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it, 

And fill'd my sv.elling sails as they were wafted 

To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth. 

Which I have bled for, aiid thou foreign earth, 

Which drank this willing blood from manj' a wound ! 

Ye stones, in svliich my gore will not sink, biit 

Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, w^hich will receive it ! 

Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou 

Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest! 

I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 

I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 

Float up from the aljyss of time to be, 

And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 

Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers for ever: Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day. 

When she who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 

Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 

Unto a bastard Attila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defence 

As these old veins, oft drain'd in shieldmg her, 

Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 

And sold, and be an appanage to those 

Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 

Beggars for nobles, panders for a people!'"' 

Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces," 

The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 

When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 

In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 

Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 

Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerenl 

Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns 

Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 

Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprufj| 

From an adultress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier. 

Shall bear about their bastard}' in triumph 

To the third spurious generation ; — when 

Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being. 

Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors. 

Despised by cowards fur greater cowardice. 

And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 

All thine inheritance shall be her shame 

Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cting the* 

Vice without splendour, sin without relief 

Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 

But in its stead coarse lusts of habitudo, 

Pruiient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness 



280 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Deprann^ nature's frailty to an art ; — 

When these and more are heavy on thee, when 

Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 

Youth without honour, age without respect. 

Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'stnot murmur, 

Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts ; 

Then, m the last gasp of thine agony, 

Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! 

Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes!'^ 

Gehenna of the watt-ri! thou sea Sodom! 

Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 

Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

[Here the Doge turns, and addresses the Exe- 
cutioner. 

Slave, do thine office ; 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tj-rants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 

[The Doge throws himself upon his knees, 

and as the Executioner raises his sword 

the scene closes. 



SCENE IV. 

The Pia^iu and Piazzstta of Saint MarWs.—lTie Peo- 
ple in crowds gathered round the grated gates of the 
Ducal Palace, vuhich are shut. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

I have gain'd the gate, and can discern the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

cannot reach thee with mine utmost effort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people, 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

One has approach'd the Doge, and now they strip 

The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 

He raises his keen eye to heaven. I see 

Them glitter, and his lips move— Hush ! hush ! No, 

'Twas but a murmur — Curse upon the distance! 

His words are inarticulate, but the voice 

Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we could 

B'lt gather a sole sentence ! 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Hush! we perhaps may catch the sound. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

'T is vain, 
cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
fet( earns on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
Now — now— he kneels — and now they form a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! hark ! it falls ! 

[ The people murmur. 

THIRD CITIZEN. 

riien they have raurder'd him who would have freed us. 

FOrRTH CITIZEN. 

i\K was a kind man to the commons ever. 

FIFTH CITIZEN. 

W isoly tney did to keep their po.i als barr'd. 
W 'iijld we had known the work they were prepanng 
ICi p wc were summon'd here ; we would have brought 
W canons, aiui forced them ! 

SIXTH CITIZEN. 

\xQ you sure he 's dead ? 



FIRST CITIZEN. 

I saw the sword fall — Lo ! what have we here ? 
[Enter on the Balcony of the Palace tvhich fronts Satnl 
Murklf Place a Chief of the Ten,'^ with a bloody 
sword. He waves it thrice before the people, and 
exclaims, 
" Justice hath dealt upon the mighty traitor !" 

[The gates are opened; the populace rush in towards 
the " Giant'' s Stuirdase,^^ where the execution has 
taken place. The foremost of them exclaims to 
those behind, 
The gory head rolls down the " Giant's steps !" 

[The curtain falls. 



NOTES, 



Note 1. Page 248, line 59. 
I smote the tardy bishop at 'J'reviso. 
A historical fact. See IMarin Sanuto's Lives of the 
Doges. 

Note 2. Page 251, line 69. 

A gondola with one oar only. 

A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 

rowed with one oar as with two (though of course not 

so swiftly ) , and often is so from motives of privacy, arid 

(smce the decay of Venice) of economy. 

Note 3. Page 260, line 65. 
They think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory. 
A historical fact. 

Note 4. Page 269, line 8. 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo. 
The Doge's private family palace. 

Note 5. Page 270, line 105. 
" Signer of the Night." 
"I Signori di Notte" held an important charge ij 
the old Republic. 

Note 6. Page 273, line 43. 
Festal Thursday. 
" Giovedi Gmsso," "/ai or greasy Thursday," which 
I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 

Note 7. Page 273, hne 57. 
Guards ! let their moutlis be gagg'd, even in the act. 
Historical fact. See Sanuto, in the appendix to this 
tragedy. 

Note 8. Page 275, line 59. 
Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted 1 
The Venetian senate took the same title as the Ro- 
man, of "Conscript Fathers." 

Note 9. Page 279, line 36. 
'T is with age, then. 
This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of Paris, to 
a Frenchman who made him the same reproach on his 
way to execution, in the earliest part of their revolution. 
I find in reading over (since the completion of this 
tragedy), for the first time these six years, "Venice 
Preserved," a similar reply on a different occasion by 
Renault, and other coincidences arising from the sub- 
ject. I need hardly remind the gentlest reader, that 
such coincidences must be accidental, from the very 
facility of their detection by reference to so popular a 



MARINO FALTERO. 



281 



play on tne stage and in the closet as Otway's chef- 
d''teuvre. 

Note 10. Page 279, line 35. 
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people 

Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
reader look to the historical, of the period prophesied, 
or rather of the few years preceding that period. Vol- 
taire calculated their "nostre benemerite Meretrici," 
at twelve thousand of regulars, without including vol- 
unteers and local militia, on what authority I know not ; 
but it is perhaps the only part of the population not 
decreased. Venice once contained two hundred thou- 
sand inhabitan s ; there are now about ninety thou- 
sand, and THESf ! ! Few individuals can conceive, and 
none could dest abe the actual state into which the 
more than infernal tyranny of Austria has plunged this 
unhappy city. 

Note 11. Page 279, line 36. 
Then, when the Hebrew 's in thy palaces. 

The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the 
Jews : who, in the earlier times of the Republic, were 
only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the 
city of Venice. The whole commerce is in the hands 
of the Jews and Greeks, and the Huns form the gar- 
rison. 

Note 12. Page 280, line 10. 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 

Of the first fifty Doges, Jive abdicated— :/?i;e were 
banished with their ej'es put o\il—Jive were massacred 
— and nine deposed ; so that nineteen out of fifty lost 
the throne by violence, besides two who fell in battle : 
this occurred long previous to the reign of Mar 'no 
Faliero. One of his more immediate predecessors An- 
drea Dandolo, died of vexation. Marino Faliero him- 
self perished as related. Amongst his successors, Fos- 
cari, after seeing his son repeatedly tortured and ban- 
ished, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the 
election of his successor. Morosini was impeached for 
he loss of Candia; but this was previous to his duke- 
dom, during which he conquered the Morea, and was 
styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say, 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 

Note 13. Page 280, line 70. 
Chief of the Ten. 
"Un Capo de'Dieci" are the words of Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 



APPENDIX. 



I. 

MCCCLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 

"FtJ eletto da quarantuno Elettori, il quale era Cav- 
ajere e conte di Valdemarino in Trivigiana, ed era 
ncco, e si trovava ambasciadore a Roma. E a di 9, di 
iSetiembre, dopo sepolto il suo predecessore. fu chiamato 
i! gran Consiglio, e fu preso di fare il Doge giusta il so- 
li to. E furono fatti i cinque Correttori, Ser Bernardo 
Giustiniani Procuratore, Ser Paolo Loredano, Ser Fi- 
rippo Aurio, Ser Pietro Trivisano, e Ser Tommaso 
Viadro. I quali a dl 10, misero queste correzioni alia 
))romozione del Doge : che i Consiglieri non odano gli 
Oratori e Nunzi de' Signori, senza i Capi de' quaranta, 
41 



ne possano rispondere ad alcuno, se non saranno quattrtJ 
Consiglieri e due Capi de' Quaranta. E che osservino 
la forma del suo Capitolare. E che Messer lo Dogo 
si metta nella miglior parte, q^uando i giudici tra loro 
non fossero d'accordo. E ch' egli non possa far ven- 
dere i suoi imprestiti, salvo con legittima causa, e col 
voler di cinque Consiglieri, di due Capi de' Quaranta, 
e delle due parti del Consiglio de' Pregati. Item, che 
in luogo di tre mila pelli di Conigli, che debbon dare 
Zaratini per regalia al Doge, non trovandosi tante pelli 
gU diano Ducati ottanta I'anno. E poi a di 11, detto, 
misero etiam altre correzioni, che se il Doge, che sara 
eletto, fosse fuori di Venezia, i savj possano provvedere 
del suo ritomo. E quando fosse il Doge ammalato, sia 
Vicedoge uno de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. 
E che il detto sia nominato Viceluogotenente di Messer 
lo Doge, quando i giudici faranno i suoi atti. E nota, 
perche fu fatto Doge uno, ch'era assente, che fii Vice- 
doge Ser Marino Badoero piii vecchio de' Consiglieri. 
Item, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' Con- 
siglieri, e a' Capi de' Quaranta, quando vachera il 
Ducato finche sara eletto I' altro Doge. E cosi a di 11 
di Settembre fu create il prefato Marino Faliero Doge. 
E fu preso, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' 
Consiglieri e a' Capi de' Quaranta. I quali stiano in 
Palazzo di continue, fino che verra il Doge. Sicche di 
continue stiano in Palazzo due Consiglieri e un Capo 
de' Quaranta. E subito furono spedite lettere al detto 
Doge, il quale era a Roma Oratore al Legato di Papa 
Innocenzo VI. ch' era in Avignone. Fu preso nel gran 
Consiglio d'eleggere dodici ambasciadori incontro a 
Marino Ftdiero Doge, il quale veniva da Roma. E gi- 
unto a Chioggia, il Podestamandb Taddeo Giustiniani 
suo figliuolo incontro, con quindici Ganzaruoh. E poi 
venuto a S. Clemente nel Bucintoro, venne un gran 
caligo, adeo che il Bucintoro non si pote levare. Laonde 
il Doge co' gentiluomini nolle piatte vennero di lungo 
in questa Terra a' 5 d'Ottobre del 1354. E dovendo 
smontare alia riva della Paglia per lo cahgo andarona 
ad isniontare alia riva della Piazza in mezzo alle due co- 
lonne dove si fa la Giustizia, che fu un malissimo au- 
gui'io. E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di San 
Marco alia laudazione di quelle. Era in questo tempo 
Canceilier Grande Messer Benintende. I quarantuno 
Elettori furono, Ser Giovanni Contarini, Ser' Andrea 
Giustiniani, Ser Michele Morossini, Ser Simone Dan- 
dolo, Ser Pietro Lando, Ser Marino Gradenigo, Ser 
Marco Dolfino, Ser Nicolo Faliero, Ser Giovanni Qui- 
rini, Ser Lorenzo Soranzo, Ser Marco Bembo, Sere 
Stefano Belegno, Ser Francesco Loredano, Ser Ma- 
rino Veniero, Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, Ser Andrea 
Barbaro, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, Ser Bettino da Mol- 
lino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procuratore, Ser Marco Celsi, 
Ser Paolo Donate, Ser Bertucci Grimani, Ser Pietro 
Steno, Ser Luca Duodo, Ser' Andrea Pisani, Ser Fran- 
cesco Caravello, Ser Jacopo Trivisano, Sere Schiavo 
Marcello, Ser Maffeo Aimo, Ser Marco Capello, Ser 
Pancrazio Giorgio, Ser Giovanni Foscarini, Ser Tom- 
maso Viadro, Sere Schiava Polani, Ser Marco Polo, 
Ser Marino Sagredo, Sere Stefano Mariani, Ser Fran- 
cesco Soriano, Ser Orio Pasqualigo, Ser' Andrea 
Gritti, Ser Buono da Mosio. 

" Trattaio di Messer Marino FuHpto Doge, tiatto dn 
una Cronica antica. Essendo venuto il Giovedi dells 
Caccia, fu fatta sdusta il solito la Caccia. E a' cue' 



tempi dopo fattala Caccia s'andava in Palazzo del Doge 
in una di quelle sale, e con donne facevasi una festic- 
ciuola, dove si ballava fino alia prima campana, e ve- 
mva una coiazione ; la quale spesa faceva Messer lo 
Dose, quando v' era la Dogaressa. E poscia lutti anda- 
\ano a casa sua. Sopra la qual festa, pare, che Ser Mi- 
chele Steno, molto giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma 
ardito e astuto, i! quale era innamorato in certa donzella 
della Dogaressa, essendo sul Solajo appresso le donne, 
facesse cert' atto non conveniente, adeo che il Doge co- 
mandb ch' e' fosse buttato giu dal Solajo. E cosi quegli 
scudieri del Doge lo spinsero giu di quel Solajo. Laonde 
a Ser Michele parve, che fossegli stata fatta troppo 
grande ignominia. E non considerando altramente il 
fine, ma sopra quella passione fornita la festa, e andati 
tutti -via, quella notte egli andb, e sulla cadrega, dove 
sedeva il Doge nella Sala dell' I'dienza (perche allora i 
Dogi non tenevano panno di seta sopra la cadrega, ma 
sedevano in una cadrega di legno) scrisse alcune parole 
disoneste del Doge e della Dogaressa, cioe : Marin Fa- 
liero dalla bella moglie : Altri la gode, ed egli la man- 
tiene. E la mattina furono vedute tali parole scritte. 
E parve una brutta cosa. E per la Signoria fu com- 
messa la cosa agli Avvogadori del Comune con grande 
efBcacia. I quali Avvosadori subito diedero taglia grande 
per venire in chiaro della verita di chi avea scritto tal 
lettera. E tandem si seppe, che Michele Steno aveale 
scritte. E fu per li Quaranta preso di ritenerlo ; e ri- 
tenuto confessb, che in quella passione d' essere stato 
spinto giu dal Solajo, presente la sua amante, egli aveale 
scritte. Onde poi fu placitato nel detto Consiglio, e 
parve al Consiglio si per rispetto all' eta, come per la 
caldezza d'amore, di condannarlo a compiere due mesi 
in prigione serrato, e poi ch' e' fosse bandilo di Venezia 
e dal distretto per un' anno. Per la qual condennagione 
tanto piccola il Doge ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 
dogli che non fosse stata fatta quella estimazione della 
cosa, che ricercava la sua dignita del Ducato. E diceva, 
ch' eglino doveano averlo fatto appiccare per la gola, o 
saltern bandirlo in perpetuo da "\'enezia. E perche 
(quando dee succedere un' effetto e necessario che vi 
concorra la cangione a fare tal' effetto) era destinato, che 
a ^lesser Marino Dose fosse tagliata la testa, percib oc- 
corse, che entrata la Quaresima il giorno dopo che fu 
condannato il detto Ser Michele Steno, un gentiluomo 
da Ca Barbaro, di natura collerico, andasse all' Arsenale, 
domandasse certe cose ai Padroni, ed era alia presenza 
de' Sisnori I'Ammiraglio dell' Arsenale. II quale intesa 
la domanda, disse, che non si poteva fare. Quel gen- 
tiluomo venne a parole coll' Ammiraglio, e diedegh un 
pugno su un'occhio. E perche avea un'anello in dito, 
coir anello gli ruppe la pelle, e fece sangue. E I'Ammi- 
raglio cosi battuto e insanguinato andb al Doge alamen- 
tarsi, acciocche il Doge facesse fare gran punizione con- 
tra il detto da Ca Barbaro : H Doge disse : Che woi che 
tifaccia ? Guarda le ignomimoae parole scritte di me, e 
U modo cVl stato punito quel ribrddo di ^Fichele Steno, 
che le scnsse. E quale stima hanno i Quaranta fatto 
della persona nostra 7 Laonde I'Ammiraglio gli disse : 
Messer lo Doge, se voi volete farvi Signore, e fare ta- 
8 Hare tutti questi becchi gentiluomini a pezzi, mi hasta 
"animo, dandomi voi ajuto, di farvi Signore di questa 
Ter^a. E allora voi potrcte castigare tutti costoro. In- 
t»:e:o quests, il Doge disse, Come si pud fare una simile 
vj<k7 E COS! entrarono in ragionamento. 

■' Il IJoge mandi- a chiamere Ser Bertuccio Faliero suo 



nipote, il quale stava con lui in Palazzo, e entrarono 
in questa macchinazione. Ne si partirono di li, che man- 
darono per Filippo Calendaro, uomo marittimo e di gran 
seguito, e per Bertuccio Israello, ingegnere e uomo astu- 
tissimo. E consigliatisi insieme diede ordine di chia- 
mare alcuni altri. E cosi per alcuni giomi la notte si 
riducevano insieme in Palazzo in casa del Doge. E chia- 
marono a parte a parte altri, videlicet Niccolb Fa- 
giuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolb 
dalle Bende, Niccolb Biondo, e Stefano Trivisano. E 
ordinb di fare sedici o diciassette Capi in diversi luoghi 
della Terra, i quali avessero cadaun di loro quarant' uo- 
mini prov^-igionati, preparati, non dicendo a' detti suoi 
quaranta quello, che volessero fare. Ma che il giorno 
stabilito si mostrasse di far quistione tra loro in diversi 
luoghi, acciocche il Doge facesse sonare a San Marco le 
campane, le quali non si possono suonare, s' egli nol 
comanda. E al suono delle campane questi sedici o 
diciassette co' suoi uomini venissero a San Marco alle 
strade, che buttano in Piazza. E cosi i nobili e primarj 
cit.iadini, che venissero in Piazza, per sapere del romore 
cib ch'era, li tagliassero a pezzi. E seguito questo, che 
fosse chiamat per Signore Messer Marino FEdiero Doge. 
E fermate le cose tra loro, stabilito fu, che questo do- 
vess' essere a' 15 d'Aprilc del 1355 in giorno di oNIerco- 
ledi. La quale macchinazione trattata fu tra loro tanto 
scgretamente, che mai ne pure se ne sospettb, non che 
se ne sapesse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signor' Iddio, che ha 
sempre ajutato questa gloriosissima citta, e che per ie 
santimonie e giustizie sue mai non I'ha abbandonata, 
ispirb a un Beltramo Bergamasco, il quale fu messo 
Capo di quarant' uomini per uno de' detti congiurati 
(il quale intese qualche parola, sicche comprese I'effeto, 
che doveva succedere, e il qual era di casa di Ser Nic- 
colb Lionidi Santo Stefano) diandare adi ^^^'^d'Aprile 
a casa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni. E gli disse ogni 
cosa dell' ordin dato. H quale intese le cose, rimase 
come morto ; e intese molte particolarita, il detto Bel- 
tramo il pregb che lo tenesse segreto, e glielo disse, 
acciocche il detto Ser Niccolb non si partisse di casa a 
di 15, acciocche egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendo 
partirsi, il fece ritenere a suoi di casa, e serrarlo in una 
camera. Ed esso andb a casa di IM. Giovanni Gradenigo 
Nasone, il quale fu poi Doge, che stava anch' egli a 
Santo Stefano ; e dissegli la cosa. La quale paren- 
dogli, com'era, d'una grandissima importanza, tutti e 
due andarono a casa di Ser Marco Cornaro, die stava 
a San Felice. E dettogli il tutto, tutti e tre delibera- 
rono di venire a casa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni, ed 
esaminare il detto Beltramo. E quello esaminato, in- 
tese le cose, il fecero stare serrato. E andarono tutti e 
tre a San Salvatore in sacristia, e mandorono i loro fa- 
migli a chiamare i Consiglieri, gh Av^'ogadori, i Capi 
de' Dieci, e que' del Consiglio. E ridotti insieme dissero 
loro le cose. I quali rimasero morti. E deliberarono di 
mandare pel detto Beltramo, e fattolo venire cauta- 
mente, ed esaminatolo, e verificate le cose, ancorche ne 
sentissero gran passione, pure peiisarono la provvisione, 
E m andarono pe' Capi de' Quaranta, pe' Signon di 
notte, pe Capi de' Sestieri, e pe Cinque della Pace. E 
ordinato, ch' eglino co' loro uomini trovassero degli 
altri buoni uomini, e mandas-ero a casa de' capi de' 
congiurati, ut supra mettessero loro le mani addosso. 
E tolsero : detti le Maestrerie dell' Arsenale, acciochfe 
provvisienati d*i' congiurati non potessero ofTenderh. 
E si ridussero in Palazzo verso la sera. J}ovc ridotu 



MARINO FALIERO. 



283 



fecero serrare le porle della corte del Palazzo. E man- 
darono a ordinare al campanaro, che non sonasse le 
campane. E cosi fu eseguito, e messe le mani addosso 
a tutti i nominati di sopra, furono que' condotti al 
Palazzo. E vedendo il Consiglio de' Dieci, che il Doge 
era nella cospirazione, presero di eleggere venti de' 
primarj della Terra, di giunta al detto Consiglio a con- 
sigliare, non perb che potessero mettere pallotta. 

" I Consiglieri furono questi : Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, 
del Sestiero di San Marco ; Ser Almorb Veniero da Santa 
Marina, del Sestiero di Castello ; Ser Tommaso Viadro, 
del Sestiero di Caneregio; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, del 
Sestiero di Santa Croce ; Ser Pietro Trivisano, del Se- 
stiero di San Paolo, Ser Pantalione Barbo il Grande, del 
Sestiero d'Ossoduro. Gli Avvogadori del Comune fu- 
rono Ser Zufredo Morosini, e Ser Orio Pasqualigo, e 
questi non ballottarono. Que' del Consiglio de' Dieci ; 
furono ; Ser Giovanni Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, 
e Ser Micheletto Dolfino, Capi del detto Consiglio de' 
Dieci ; Ser Luca da Legge, e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Inqui- 
sitori del detto Consiglio : Ser Marco Polani, Ser Marino 
Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, Ser Nicoletto Trivisano 
da Sant' Angiolo. Questi elessero tra loro una Giunta, 
nella notte ridotti quasi sul romper del giorno, di venti 
nobili di Venezia de' migliori, de' piu savj, e de' piu an- 
tichi, per consultare, non pert) che mettessero pallot- 
tola. E non vi voUero alcuno da Ca Faliero. E cac- 
ciarono fuori del Consiglio Niccol5 Faliero, e un' altro 
Niccolb Faliero da San Tommaso, per essere della ca- 
sata del Doge. E questa provigione di chiamare i venti 
della Giunta fu molto commendata per tutta la Terra. 
Questi furono i venti della Giunta, Ser Marco Giusti- 
niani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo,Procuratore, Ser 
Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Conta- 
rini, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolb Volpe, Ser Gio- 
vanni Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gra- 
denigo, Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco So- 
ranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser 
Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Belegno, Ser Niccolb 
Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Ja- 
copo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarini. E chiamati 
questi venti nel Consiglio de' Dieci, fu mandato per 
Messer Marino Faliero Doge, il quale andava pel Pa- 
lazzo con gran gente, gentiluomini, e altra buona gente, 
che non sapeano ancora come il fatto stava. In questo 
tempo fu condotto, preso, e legato, Bertuccio Israello, 
uno de' Capi del trattato per que' di Santa Croce, e an- 
cora fu preso Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, e 
Nicoletto Alberto, il Guardiaga, e altri uomini da mare, 
e d' altre condizioni. I quali furono esaminati, e trovata 
a verita del tradimento. A dl 16 d'Aprile fu senten- 
ziato pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, che Filippo Calan- 
dario. e Bertucci Israello fossero appiccati alle colonne 
rossft del balconate del Palazzo, nelle quali sta a vedere 
il Doge la festa della Caccia. E cosi furono appiccati 
con spranghe in bocca. E nel giorno seguente' questi 
furono condannati, Niccolb Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
Nicoletto Doro, Marco Geuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Ni- 
coletto Fedele figliuolo di Filippo Calendaro, Marco To- 
-ello, detto Israello, Stefano Trivisano, cambiatore di 
!<anta Margherita, Antonio dalle Bende. Furono tutti 
presi a Chioggia, che fuggivano, e dipoi in diversi giorni 
a due a due, ed a uno a uno, per sentenza fatta nel detto 
Consiglio de' Dieci, furono appiccati per la gola alle co- 
lonne, continuando dalle rosse del Palazzo, seguendo fin 



verso il Canale. E altri presi furono lasciati, percht*! 
sentirono il fatto, ma non vi furono tal che fu dato loro 
ad intendere per questi capi, che vcnissero coll' arme, 
per prendere alcuni ma.fattori in servigio della Signoria, 
ne altro sapeano. Fu encora liberate Nicoletto Alberto, 
il Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuola, e suo figliuolo, 
e molti altri, che non erano in cclpa. 

E a di 16 d' Aprile, giorno di Venerdi, fu sentenziatt 
nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, di tagliare la testa a Mes- 
ser Marino Faliero Doge sul pato della scala di pietra, 
dove i Dogi giurano il primo sagramento, quando mon- 
tano prima in Palazzo. E cosi serrato il Palazzo, la 
mattina seguente a ora di terza, fu tagliata la testa al 
detto Doge a di 17 d' Aprile. E prima la berretta fu 
tolta dl testa al detto Doge, avanti cne venisse giii dalla 
scala. E compiuta la giustizia, pare che un Capo de' 
Dieci andasse alle Colonne del Palazzo sopra la Piazza, 
e mostrasse la spada insanguinata a tutti, dicendo : E 
statafatla la gran giustizia del Tradilore. E aperta la 
porta, tutti entrarono dentro con gran furia a vedere il 
Doge, ch' era stato giustiziato. E' da sapere, che a fare 
la detta giustizia non fu Ser Giovanni Sanudo ilConsi- 
gliere, perch6 era andato a casa per difetto della persona, 
sicch6 furono quattordici soli, che ballottarono, cio6 
cinque Consiglieri, e nove del Consiglio de' Dieci. E fu 
preso, che tutti i beni del Doge fossero cohfiscati nel 
Comune, e cosi degli altri traditori. E fu conceduto 
al detto Doge pel detto Consiglio de Dieci, ch' egli po- 
tesse ordinare del suo per ducati due mila. Ancora fu 
preso, che tutti i Consiglieri, e Avvogadori del Comune, 
que' del Consiglio de' Dieci, e della Giunta, ch' erano 
stati a fare la detta sentenza del Doge, e d'altri, avessero 
licenza di portar' arme di di e di notte in Venezia e da 
Grado fino a Gavarzere, ch' 6 sotto il Dogato, con due 
fanti in vita loro, stando i fanti con essi in casa al suo 
pane e al suo vino. E chi non avesse fanti, potesse dar 
tal licenza a' suoi figliuoli ovvero fratelli, due perb e non 
piu. Eziandio fu data licenza dell' arme a quattro Notaj 
della Cancelleria, cioe della Corte Maggiore, che furono 
a prendere le deposizioni e inquisizioni, in perpetuo a 
loro soli, i quali furono Amadio, Nicoletto di Loreno, 
Steffanello, e Pietro de' Compostelli, Scrivani de' Si- 
gnori di notte. Ed essendo stati irnpiccati i traditori, c 
tagliata la testa al Doge, rimase la Terra in gran riposo 
e quiete. E come in una cronica ho trovato, fu por- 
tato il corpo del Doge in una barca con otto doppieri 
a seppelire nella sua area a San Giovanni e Paolo, la 
quale al presente e in quell' andito per mezzo la Chie- 
suola di Santa Maria della Pace, fatta fare pel Vescovo 
Gabriello di Bergamo, e un cassone di pietra con queste 
lettere : Hicjacet Dominus Marimis Faletro Dux, E 
nel gran Consiglio non gli h stato fatto alcun brieve, ma 
il Uiogo vacuo con lettere, che dicono cosi : Hie est locus 
Marini Faletro, decapitati pro criminibus. E pare, che 
la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesa di Sant' Apostolo, la 
qual era quella grande sul ponte. Tamen vedo il con- 
trario che e pure di Ca Faliero, o che i FaJieri la ricu- 
perassero con danari dalia Chiesa. Ne voglio restar d) 
scrivere alcuni, che volevano, che fosse messo nel suo 
breve, cioe : Marinus Faletro Dux. Temeritas me cepi,.. 
Poenas Mi decapitatus pro criminibus. Altri vi feceu. 
un distico assai degno al suo merito, il quale 6 quests, 
da cessere posto su la sua sepoltura : 

"Dux Venetum jacet hie, patriam qui prodfere tentaut 
Sceptra, decus, censum, pp.rdidit, atque caput- ' 



28 i 



BYRON'S WOR 



" Non 71 clio restar di scrivere quello che ho letto in 
ana cronica, cioi>, che Marino Faliero trovandosi Po- 
desta e Capiiano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una pro- 
cessione, il vescovo stette troppo a far venire il Corpo 
di Cristo. II detto Fahero era di tanta superbia e ar- 
roganza, che diede un bufFetto al prefato ^^escovo, per 
modo ch' egli quasi cadde in terra. Perb fu permesso, 
che il Faliero pcrdette I'intelletto, e fece la mala morte, 
corne ho bcritto di sopra." 

******* 

Cronica di Sanuto — Muratori S. S. Rerum Italicarum 
—vol. xxii. 6^8—639. 



IL 

MCCCLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 

Ox the eleventh day of September, in the year of our 
Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and chosen to be 
the Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice. He was 
Count of Valdemarino, in the Marches of Treviso, and 
a Knight and a wealthy man to boot. As soon as the 
election was completed, it was resolved in the Great 
Council, that a deputation of twelve should be des- 
patched to Marino Faliero, the Duke, who was then on 
his way from Rome ; for, when he was chosen, he was 
ambassador at the court of the Holy Father, at Rome, 
— the Holy I'ather liimself held his court at Avignon. 
When Messer INIarino Faliero, the Duke, was about to 
land in this citj', on the fifth day of October, 1354, a 
thick haze came on, and darkened the air ; and he was 
enforced to land on the place of Saint Mark, between 
the two columns, on the spot where evil doers are put 
to death ; and all thought that this was the worst of 
tokens. — Nor must I forget to write that which I have 
read in a chronicle. — When Messer Marino Faliero was 
podesta and Captain of Treviso, the bishop delayed 
coming in with the holy sacrament, on a day when a 
procession was to take place. Now the said jMarino Fa- 
Sero was so very proud and wTathful, that he buffeted 
the bishop, and almost struck him to the ground. And 
therefore. Heaven allowed jNIarino Faliero to go out of 
his right senses, in order that he might bring himself to 
an evil death. 

When this Duke had held the dukedom during nhie 
months and six days, he being wcked and ambitious, 
sought to make himself lord of Venice, in the manner 
which I have read in an ancient chronicle. When the 
Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to hunt 
the bull, the bud-hunt took place as usual ; and, accord- 
mg to the usage of those times, after the bull-hunt had 
ended, thpy all proceeded unto the palace of the Duke, 
and assembled together in one of his halls ; and they 
disported themselves with the women. And until the 
tirst bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet was 
served up. My Lord the Duke paid the expenses there- 
of, provided he nad a Ducuess, and after the banquet 
tney all »-eturnc;d to Ineir homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Michele 
Sieiio, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, but 
crafty atiO daring, and who loved one of the damsels of 
ihe Duchess. Srr Michele stood amongst the women 
i;)on the solajo ; and he behaved indiscreetly, so that 
my J -ord tne Duke ordered that he snould be kicked off 
ine solajo; and the esquires of the Duke flung him 
^own fron the solajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought 



that such an affront was beyond all bearing ; and when 
the feast was over, and all other persons had left th* 
palace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words re- 
lating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the chair in 
which the Duke was used to sit ; for in those days the 
Duke did not cover his chair with cloth of sendal, buf 
he sat in a chair of wood. Ser Michele wrote thereon: 
— " Marin Falier^ the husband of the fair wife ; othen 
kiss her, but he keeps her.'''' In the morning the words 
were seen, and the matter was considered to be very 
scandalous ; and the Senate commanded the Awogadori 
of the Commonwealth to proceed therein with the 
greatest diligence. A largess of great amount was im- 
mediately proffered by the Av^'ogadori, in order to dis- 
cover who had written these words. And at length it 
was known that Michele Steno had written them. It 
was resolved in the Council of Forty that he should be 
arrested ; and he then confessed, that in a fit of vexa- 
tion and spite, occasioned by his being thrust off the 
solajo in the presence of his mistress, he had written 
the words. Therefore the Council debated thereon. 
And the Council took his youth into consideration, and 
that he was a lover, and therefore they adjudged that 
he should be kept in close confinement during two 
months, and that afterwards he should be banished from 
Venice and the state during one j'ear. In consequence 
of this merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
acted in such a manner as was required by the respect 
due to his ducal dignity ; and he said that they ought 
to have condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the 
neck, or at least to be banished for hfe. 

Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was to 
have his head cut off. And as it is necessary, when any 
effect is to be brought about, that the cause of such ef 
feet must happen, it therefore came to pass, that on the 
very day after sentence had been pronounced on Ser 
Michele Steno, being the first day of Lent, a gentleman 
of the house of Barbaro. a choleric gentleman, went 
to the arsenal and required certain things of the mas- 
ters of the galleys. This he did in the presence of the 
admiral of the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, 
answered, — No, it cannot be done. — High words arose 
between the gentleman and the admiral, and the gen- 
tleman struck him with his fist just above the eye ; and 
as he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to com- 
plain, and with the intent of praying him to inflict 
some heavy punishment upon the gentleman of Ca Bar- 
baro. — "What wouldst thou have me do for thee?'' 
answered the Duke; — "think upon the shameful gibe 
which hath been written concerning me ; and think on 
the manner in which they have punished that ribald 
Michele Steno, who wrote it ; and see how the Council 
of Forty respect our person." — Upon this the admiral 
answered ; — " My Lord Duke, if you would wish to make 
yourself a prince, and to cut all those cuckoldy gentlc' 
men to pieces, I have the heart, if you do but help me, 
to make you prince of all this state ; and then you may 
punish them all." — Hearing this, the Duke said ; — " How 
can such a matter be brought about?" — and so they 
discoursed thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio Faliero, 
who lived with him in the palace, and they oommuned 



MARINO FALIERO. 



about this plot. And, without leaving the place, they 
sent for Philip Calendaro, a seaman of great repute, and 
"or Bertuccio Israello, who was exceedingly wily and 
cunning. Then, taking counsel amongst themselves, 
they agreed to call in some others ; and so for set^eral 
nights successively, they met with the Duke at home in 
his palace. And the following men were called in singly ; 
to wit; — Niccolo Fagiuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano 
Fagiano, Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo Biondo, and Ste- 
fano Trivisano. — It was concerted that sixteen or seven- 
teen leaders should be stationed in various parts of the 
city, each being at the head of forty men, armed and 
prepared ; but the followers were not to know their des- 
tination. On the appointed daj' they were to make af- 
frays amongst themselves here and there, in order that 
the Duke might have a pretence for tolling the bells of 
San Marco : these bells are never rung but by the order 
of the Duke. And at the sound of the bells, these six- 
teen or seventeen, with their followers, were to come 
to San Marco, through the streets which open upon the 
Piazza. And when the noble and leading citizens should 
come into the Piazza, to know the cause of the riot, then 
the conspirators were to cut them in pieces ; and this 
work being finished, my Lord Marino Faliero the Duke 
was to be proclaimed the Lord of Venice. Things 
having been thus settled, they agreed to fulfil their in- 
tent on Wednesday, the fifteenth day of April, in the 
year 1355. So covertly did they plot, that no one ever 
dreamt of their machinations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo 
Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the plot to Hght 
in the following manner. This Beltramo, who belonged 
to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo Stefano, had heard a word 
or two of what was to tak<i 'place ; and so, in the before- 
mentioned month of April, he went to the house of the 
aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and told him all the partic- 
ulars of the plot. Ser Niccolo, when he heard all 
these things, was struck dead, as it were, with affright. 
He heard all the particulars, and Beltramo prayed him 
to keep it all secret ; and if he told Ser Niccolo, it was 
m order that Ser Niccolo might stop at home on the 
fifteenth of April, and thus save his life. Beltramo was 
going, but Ser Niccolo ordered his servants to lay hands 
upon him and lock him up. Ser Niccolo then went to 
the house of Messer Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who 
afterwards became Duke, and who also lived at Santo 
Stefano, and told him all. The matter seemed to him 
to be of the very greatest importance, as indeed it was ; 
8,nd they two w ent to the house of Ser Marco Cornaro, 
who Uved at San Felice ; and, having spoken with him, 
they all three then determined to go back to the house 
of Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said Beltramo • 
and having questioned him, and heard all that he had to 
say, they left him in confinement. And then they all 
iliree went into the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent 
'iieir men to summon the Councillors, the Avvogadori, 
he Capi de' Dieci, and those of the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole story was told 
to them. They were struck dead, as it were, with 
afiTiffht. They determined to send for Beltramo. He 
was brought in before them. They examined him, and 
ascertained that the matter was true ; and, ahhout^h 
lliey were exceedingly troubled, yet they determined 
upon their measures. And they sent for the Capi de' 
2C 



Quaranta, the Signori di Notte, the Capi de' Sestieri. 
and the Cinque della Pace; and they v/ere ordered to 
associate to their men other good men and true, who 
were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the 
conspiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators 
might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assem- 
bled in the palace. When they were assembled in the 
palace, they caused the gates of the quadrangle of the 
palace to be shut. And they sent to the keeper of th^^ 
bell-tower, and forbade the toUing of the bells. All th % 
was carried into effect. The before-mentioned con^ 
spirators were secured, and they were brought to tho 
palace ; and as the Council of Ten saw that the Duke 
was in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the lead- 
ing men of the state should be associated to them, for 
the purpose of consultation and deliberation, but that 
they should not be allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following: Ser Giovanni 
Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Almoro 
Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Castello; 
Ser Tommaso Viadro, of the Sestiero of Caneregio; Sor 
Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of Santa Croce ; Ser 
Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero of San Paolo ; Ser 
Pantalione B arbo il Grande, of the Sestiero of Ossoduro. 
The Avvogadori of the Commonwealth were Zufredo 
Morosini, and Ser Orio Pasqualigo; and these did not 
ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser Giovanni 
Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser Micheletto 
Dolfino, the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. 
Ser Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisi- 
tors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco Poiani. 
Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, and Ser 
Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant' Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they 
chose a junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
amongst the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
They were to give counsel, but not to ballot. And they 
would not admit any one of Ca Faliero. And Niccolo 
Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San Tommaso 
were expelled from the Council, because they belongec 
to the family of the Doge. And this resolution of 
creating the junta of twenty was much praised through- 
out the state. The following were the members of the 
junta of twenty: — Ser Marco Giustiniani, Procurator", 
Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lionardo Guis 
tiniani, Procuratore, Ser'AndreaContarini, SereSimone 
Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovanni Loredano, 
Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gradenigo, Ser Andrea 
Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco Soranzo, Ser Rinieri 
da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser Marino Morosini, 
Ser Stefano Beleano, Ser Niccolo Lioni, Ser Filippo 
Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser 
Giovanni Foscarini. 

These twenty were accordingly called in to the 
Council of Ten; and they sent for my Lord Marino 
Faliero the Duke ; and my Lord Marino was theii 
consorting in the palace with people of great estate, 
gentlemen, and other |Oud men, none of whom knew 
yet how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one ©f 
the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators m Santa 
Croce, was arrested and bound, and Drought before .n«? 
Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nicoieuo 
Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were also taken togetner, 
with several seamen, and people of various •■anKs. 



286 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



These were «)xam,ied, and the truth of the plot was 
ascertained. 

On the sixteentli of April, judgment was given in the 
Council of Ten, that FiUppo Calendaro and Bertuccio 
Israeht. should be hanged upon the red pillars of the 
balcony of the palace, from which the Duke is wont to 
look at the bull-hunt : and they were nanged with gags 
m their mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned : — Nic- 
colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco 
Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, the son of 
Philip. Calendaro, Marco Torello, called Israello, Slefano 
'J'rivisano, the money-changer of Santa Margherita, and 
Antonio dalle Bende. These were all taken at Chiozza, 
for they were endeavouring to escape. Afterwards, by 
virtue of the sentence which was passed upon them in 
the Council of Ten, they were hanged on successive 
days, some singly and some in couples, upon the col- 
umns of tne palace, beginning from the red colunms, 
and so going onwards towards the canal. And other 
prisoners were discharged, because, although they had 
been involved in the conspiracy, yet they had not assist- 
ed in it : for they were given to understand by some of 
the heads of the plot, that they were to come armed 
and prepared for the service of the state, and in order 
to secure certain criminals, and ihey knew nothing else. 
Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and Bartolommeo 
Ciriuola and his son, and several others, who were not 
guilty, were discharged. 

On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment was 
also given, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that my 
Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have his head 
cut off, and that the execution should be done on the 
laiidino'-place of the stone staircase, where the Dukes 
lake their oath when they first enter the palace. On 
the following day. the seventeenth of April, the doors 
of the palace being shut, the Duke had his head cut off, 
about the hour of noon. And the cap of estate was 
taken from the Duke's head before he came down stairs. 
When the execution was over, it is said that one of the 
Council of Ten went to the columns of the palace over 
against the place of St. Mark, and that he showed the 
oloody sword unto the people, crying out with a loud 
voice — " The terrible doom hath fallen upon the trai- 
tor!" — and the doors were opened, and the people all 
rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke who had been 
beheaded. 

It must be known, that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 
( ouncillor, was not present when the aforesaid sentence 
was pronounced ; because he was unwell and remained 
at nome. So that only fourteen balloted; that is to 
say, five councillors, and nine of the Council of Ten 
And it was adjudged, that all the lands and chattels of 
the Duke, as well as of the other traitors, should be 
frtrfciled to the state. And, as a grace to the Duke, it 
was resolved in the Council of Ten, that he should be 
allowed to dispose of two thousand ducats out of his 
own property. And it was resolved, that all the coun- 
cillors and all the Avvogadori of the commonwealth 
liiose of the Council of Ten, and the members of the 
luma who had assisted in passing sentence on the Duke 
aiid me other traitors, should have the privilege of car- 
;ving arms Doth by day and by night in Venice, and 
from Grario to Cavazere. And they were also to be 
vowoii t\v() fnntmen carrying arms, the aforesaid foot- 



men living and boarding with them in their own houses. 
And he who did not keep two footmen might transfer 
the privilege to his sons or his brothers ; but only to 
two. Permission of carrying arms was also granted tw 
the four Notaries of the Chancery, that is to say, of the 
Supreme Court, vv^ho took the depositions ; and they 
were Amedio, Nicoletto di Lorino, StefTanello, and 
Pietro de Compostelli, the secretaries of the Signori di 
Notte. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the Duke had 
had his head cut off, the state remained in great tran- 
quillity and peace. And, as I have read in a chronicle, 
the corpse of the Duke was removed in a barge, with 
eight torches, to his tomb in the church of San Giovanni 
e Paolo, where it was, buried. The tomb is now in 
that aisle in the middle of the little church of Santa 
Maria della Pace, which was built by Bishop Gabriel of 
Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, with these words en- 
graved thereon : " Heicjacet Dominus Marinus Faletro 
Dux.'''' — And they did not paint his portrait in the hall 
of the Great Council : — But in the place where it ought 
to have been, you see these words : — " Hie est locus 
Marini Faletro decapitati pro criminihus " — and it is 
thought that his house was granted to the church of 
Sant' Apostolo; it was that great one near the bridge. 
Yet this could not be the case, or else the family bought 
it back from the church ; for it still belongs to Ca Fa- 
liero. I must not refrain from noting, that some wished 
to write the following words in the place where his 
portrait ought to have been, as aforesaid : — " Marinus 
Faletro Dux, temeritas me cepit, poenas lui, decapitatus 
pro criminihus.''^ — Others, also, indited a couplet, worthy 
of being inscribed upon his tomb. 

" Dux Venetum jacet heic, patriam qui prodere tentans, 

Sceptra, decus, ceusum, peididit, atque caput." 

[I am obliged for this excellent translation of the old chronicle to Mr. 

F. Cohen, to whom the reader will find himself indebted for a version 

that I could not myself (though after many years' intercourse with Italian,) 

have given bv any means so purely and so faithfully.] 



III. 

*' Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette ud 
vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al timone della repubblica, 
ma sempre prima di quel, che facea d' uopo a lui, ed alia 
patria: egli 6 Marino Faliero personnaggio a me nolo 
per antica dimestichezza. Falsa era 1' opinione intorno 
a lui, giacch6 egli si mostrb fornito piu di coraggio 
che di senno. Non pago della prima dignita, entrb con 
sinistro piede nel pubblico Palazzo: imperciocch^ 
questo Doge dei Veneti, magistrato sacro in tutti i se- 
coli, che dagli antichi fu sempre venerato qual nume in 
quella citta 1' altr' jeri fu decollato nel vestibolo dell' 
istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio le cause 
di un tale evento, se cosi vario, ed ambiguo non ne 
fosse il grido. Nessuno pero lo scusa, tutti afferniano, 
che ew!i abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa nell' ordine 
della repubblica a lui tramandato dai maggiori. Che 
desiderava egli di piu ? lo son d'avviso, che egli abbia 
oltenuto cib, che non si concedette a nessun altro: 
mentre adempiva gh ufficj di legato presso il Pontefice, 
e sulle rive del Rodano trattava la pace, che io prima 
di lui avevo hidarno tentato di conchiudere, gli fu con- 
fcrito I' onore del Ducato, che n6 chiedeva, ne s' aspet- 
tava. Tomato in patria, pensb a quelle, cui nessuno 
non pose mente giammai, e sofllri quelio che a niun't 
accade mai de solTrire: giacchfe in quel luogo celeber 



MARINO FALIERO. 



28' 



rimo, e chiarissimo, e bellissimo infra tutti quelli, che 
io v:di, ove i suoi anlenali avevano ricevuti grandissimi 
onori in mezzo alle pompe trionfali, ivi egli fu trasci- 
nato in modo servile, e spogliato delle insegne ducali, 
perdette la testa, e macchio col proprio sangue le soglie 
del tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le scale marmoree ren- 
dute spesse volte illustri o dalle solenni festivila, o dalle 
osti'i spoglie. Ho notato il luogo, ora nolo il tempo : 
h 1' anno del Natale di Cristo 1355, fu il giorno 18 d'A- 
prile. Si alto fe il grido sparso, che se alcuno esaminera 
la disciplina, e le costumanze di quella citia, e quanto 
mutamento di cose venga minacciato dalla morte di un 
sol uomo (quantunque molti altri, come narrano, es- 
sendo complici, o subirono 1' istesso supplicio, o lo 
aspettano) si accorgera, che nulla di piu grande awenne 
ai nostri tempi nell' Italia. Tu forse qui attendi il mio 
giudizio ; assolvo il popolo, se credere alia fama, bench6 
abbia potato e castigare piu mitamente, e con maggior 
dolcezza vendicare il suo dolore : ma non cosi facil- 
mente, si modera un' ira giusta insieme, e grtrnde in 
un numeroso popolo principalmente, nel quale il pre- 
cipitoso, ed instabile volgo aguzza gli stimoli dell' ira- 
condia con rapidi, e sconsigUati clamori. Compatisco, 
e nell' istesso tempo mi adiro con quell' infelice uomo, 
il quale adorno di un' insolito onore, non so che cosa 
si volesse negli estremi anni della sua vita : la cala- 
mita di lui diviene sempre piii grave, perche dalla 
sentenza contra di esso promulgata apparira, che egli fu 
non solo misero, ma insano, e demente, e che con vane 
arti si usurpb per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza- 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succederanno, che questo 
6 un esempio posto innanzi ai loro occhi, quale specchio 
nel quale veggano di essere non Signori, ma Duci, anzi 
nemmeno Duci, ma onorati servi della Repubblica. 
Tu sta sano ; e giacche fluttuano le publicche cose, sfor- 
ziamoci di governar modestissimamente i privati nostri 
affari." 

Levati. Viai^gi di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 

Tne above Italian translation from the Latin epistles 
of Petrarch, proves — 

Istly, That Marino Faliero vi^as a personal friend of 
Petrarch's : " antica dimestichezza," old intimacy, is the 
phrase of the poet. 

2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more courage 
than conduct, " piu di coraggio che di senno." 

3dly, That there was aome jealousy on the part of 
Petrarch ; for he says that Marino Faliero was treating 
of the peace which he himself had "vainly attempted 
to conclude." 

4thly, That the honour of the dukedom was con- 
ferred upon him, which he neither sought nor expected, 
" che n6 chiedeva nes' aspettava," and which had never 
been granted to any other in Hke circumstances, "cib 
che non si concedette a nessun altro ;" "proof of the 
high esteem in which he must have been held." 

othly. That he had a reputation for wisdom, only 
forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, "si surpb 
per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." — "He had 
usurped for so many years a false fame of wisdom ;" 
'atber a difficult task, I should think. People are gene- 
rally found out before eighty years of age, at least in a 
republic. 

From these, and the other historical notes which I 
have collected, it may be inferred that Marino Faliero 
possessed many of the qualities, but not the success ofj 



a hero ; and that his passions were too violent. The 
paltry and ignorant account of Dr. Moore falls to tho 
ground. Petrarch says, " that there had been no 
greater event in his times" (our iimeshterally), "nostri 
tempi," in Italy. He also differs from the historian in 
saying that Faliero was "on the banks of the Rhone,'^ 
instead of at Rome, when elected ; the other account? 
say, that the deputation of the Venetian senate me 
him at Ravenna. How this may have been, it is noi 
for me to decide, and is of no great importance. Hac 
the man succeeded, he would have changed the face ol 
Venice, and perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they 
both? 



IV. 

Extrait de Vouvrage. — Histoire de la Rdpuhlique de 
Venise, par P. Daru, de V Academic Francaise, 
torn. V. liv. XXXV. p. 95, etc. Edition de Paris, 
MDCCCXIX. 

"A CES attaques si frequentes que le gouvernement 
dirigeait contre le clerge, a ces luttes etablies entre les 
differens corps constitues, a ces entreprises de la masse 
de la noblesse contre les depositaires du pouvoir, a. 
toutes ces propositions d'innovation qui se terminaient 
toujours par des coups d'etat ; il faut ajouter une autre 
cause, non moins propre a propager le mepris des an- 
ciennes doctrines, c'etait V execs de la corruption. 

" Cette liberie de mceurs, qu'on avait long-temps van- 
tee comme le charme principal de la societe de Venise, 
etait devenue un desordre scandaleux ; le lien du mariage 
etait moins sacre dans ce pays catholique que dans ceux 
oil les lois civiles et religieuses permeltent de le dis- 
soudre. Faute de pouvoir rompre le contrat, on sup- 
posait qu'il n'avait jamais existe, et les moyens de nul- 
lite, allegues avec impudeur par les epoux, etaient 
admis avec la meme facilite par des magistrats et par 
des pretres egalement corrompus. Ces divorces rolores 
d'un autre nom devinrent si frequents, quf I'acts je plus 
important de la societe civile se trouva de la competence 
d'un tribunal d'exception, et que ce fut a la police de 
reprimer le scandale. Le conseil des dix ordonna, en 
1782, que toute femme qui intenterait une demande en 
dissolution de mariage serait obligee d'en attendre le 
jugement dans un couvent que le tribunal designerait.' 
Bientot apres il evoqua devant lui toutes les causes de 
cette nature.^ Get empietement sur la jurisdiction 
ecclesiastique ayant occasionne des reclamations de la 
part de la cour de Rome, le conseil se reserva le droit 
de debouter les epoux de leur demande ; et consentit a 
la renvoyer devant I'officialite, toutes les foies qu'il ne 
I'aurait pas rejetee.' 

" II y eut un moment oil sans doute le renversement 
des fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les discordes do- 
mestiques, determinerent le gouvernement a E'eoarteif 
des maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la liberie de mosurg 
qu'il permeltail a ses sujets : on cnassa de V enise toutes 
les courtisanes. Mais leur absence ne suffisait pas pom 
ramener aux bonnes mceurs toute une population elevee 
dans la plus honteuse licence. Le desordre oeneiid 
dans I'int^rieur des famijles, dans les cloitres ; et i'on sr 



1 Correspondance de M. Schlici' charg6 d'altaiies cw 
France, depeche du 24 Aoxii, 178". 

2 Ibid. Depeche du 3i Aout, 

3 Ibid. Depeche du 3 SfD\embre. 1785 



288 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



crut oblige de ranpelcr, d'indemniser meme ' des femmes 
qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importants secrets, et 
qu'on pouvait employer utilement a ruiner des hommes 
que leur fortune aurait pu rsndre dangereux. Depuis, 
ia licence est toujours allee croissant, et I'on a vu non 
sculement des inures trafiquer de la virginite de leurs 
P.Les, mais la vendre par un contrat, dont I'authenticite 
etait garantie par la signature d'un officier public, et 
i'execution mise sous la protection des lois.'^ 

'• Les parloirs des couvents ou etaient renfermees les 
filles nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoique la 
police y entretint soigneusement un grand nombre de 
surveillans, etaient les seuls points de reunion de la so- 
ciete de Venise, et dans ces deux endroits si divers on 
etait egalement libre. La musique, les collations, la 
galanterie, n'etaient pas plus interdites dans les parloirs 
que dans les casins. II y avait un grand nombre de 
casins destines aux reunions publlques, oii le jeu etait 
td principale occupation de la societe. C 'etait un sin- 
gulier spectacle de voir autour d'une table des personnes 
des deux sexes en masque, et de graves personnages en 
robe de magistrature, implorant le hasard, passant des 
angoisses du desespoir aux illusions de I'esperance, et 
cela sans proferer une parole. 

" Les riches avaient des casins particuliers ; mais ils 
y vivaient avec mystere ; leurs femmes delaissees trou- 
vaient un dedommagement dans la libcrte dont elles 
jouissaient ; la corruption des mceurs les avait privees 
de tout leur empire ; on vient de parcourir toute I'his- 
toire de Venise, et on ne les a pas vues une seule fois 
exercer la moindre influence." 



Extract from the History of the Republic of Venice, by 
P. Daru, Member of the French Academy, vol. v. 
b. xxxv. p. 95, etc. Paris Edit. 1819. 

"To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the 
governr.iottt against the clergy, — to the continual strug- 
gles between the different constituted bodies, — to these 
enterprises, carried on by the mass of the nobles against 
the depositaries of power, — to all those projects of inno- 
vation, which ahvays ended by a stroke of state policy, — 
we must add a cause not less fitted to spread contempt 
for ancient doctrines ; this luas the excess of corruption. 

"That freedom of manners, which had been long 
boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian society, 
had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness ; the tie 
of marriage was less sacred in that Catholic country, 
than among those nations where the laws and religion 
admit of its being dissolved. Because they could not 
break the contract, they feigned that it had not existed ; 
dnd the ground of nullity, immodestly alleged by the 
snarried pair, was admitted with equal facility by priests 
nnu magistrates, alike corrupt. These divorces, veiled 
under another name, became so frequent, that the most 
jmportant act of civil society was discovered to be 
Rtiienable to a tribunal of exceptions ; and to restrain 
'-he open scandr:'. of such proceedings became the office 
uf tlie police. In 1782 the Council of Ten decreed, that 



1 Le decret de rappel les desisnait sous le nom do vostre 
bevemcrite mcrelrici. On Icur assiana iii) tbiidsetdes maisons 
apnelecs Case rampane, d'oii vient la denomination injurieusc 
tie CarnmpiiJi 

9 Mayer, l/fucriptiov de yrvise, torn. ii. et M. Archenholtz, 
Tabtetiu de V Italie. torn. i. cliap. Z. 



every woman who should sue for a dissolution of her 
marriage should be compelled to await the decision of 
the judges in some convent, to be named by the court.' 
Soon afterwards the same council summoned all causes 
of that nature before itself. ^ This infringement on 
ecclesiastical jurisdiction having occasioned some re- 
monstrance from Rome, the council retained only the 
right of rejecting the petition of the married persons, 
and consented to refer such causes to the holy office as 
it should not previously have rejected.' 

"There was a moment in which, doubtlesa, the de- 
struction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, the do- 
mestic discord, occasioned by these abuses, determined 
the government to depart from its estabhshed maxims 
concerning the freedom of manners allowed the subject. 
All the courtesans were banished from Venice, but their 
absence was not enough to reclaim and bring back 
good morals to a whole people brought up in the most 
scandalous hcentiousness. Depravity reached the very 
bosoms of private families, and even into the cloister ; 
and they found themselves obliged to recall, and even 
to indemnify'^ women who sometimes gained posses- 
sion of important secrets, and who might be usefully 
employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes might 
have rendered them dangerous. Since that time licen- 
tiousness has gone on increasing, and we have seen 
mothers, not only selling the innocence of their daugh- 
ters, but selling it by a contract, authenticated by the 
signature of a public officer, and the performance of 
which was secured by the protection of the laws.* 

" The parlours of the convents of noble ladies, and 
the houses of the courtesans, though the police carefully 
kept up a number of spies about them, were the only 
assemblies for society in Venice ; and m these two 
places, so different from each other, there was equal free- 
dom. Music, collations, gallantry, were not more forbid- 
den in the parlours than at the casinos. There were a 
number of casinos for the purpose of public assembUes, 
where gaming was the principal pursuit of the company. 
It was a strange sight to see persons of either sex, mask- 
ed, or grave personages in their magisterial robes, round 
a table, invoking chance, and giving way at one instant 
to the agonies of despair, at the next to the illusions of 
hope, and that without uttering a single word. 

" The rich had private casinos, but they lived incog- 
nito in them ; and the wives whom they abandoned 
found compensation in the liberty they enjoyed. The 
corruption of morals had deprived them of their em- 
pire. We have just reviewed the whole history of 
Venice, and we have not once seen them exercise the 
slightest influence." 

From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
under the barbarians, there are some honourable indi» 
vidual exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the last, and, 
alas i posthumous son of the marriage of the Doges with 
the Adriatic, who fought his frigate with far greater 
gallantry than any of his French coadjutors in the me 

1 Correspondence of Mr. Schlick, French charge d'affaires. 
Despatch of 24th Auffiist, 17?2. 
•2 [bid. Despatch, 31st August. 

3 Ibid. Despatch, 3d September, 1785. 

4 The decree for tlieir recall designates them ns vosfrp. I/eve 
mrrite meretrici. A fund and some houses called Cn.^f rariL 
pane were assigned to them : hence the op'irobrious appellation 
of Carampaiie. 

5 Mayer, Deacription of Vevicc, vol. ii and M. A rcheiihuia 
Picture vf Italy, vol. i. chap. 2. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



285 



morable action off Lissa. I came home in the squadron 
v.'ith the prizes in 1811, and recollect to have heard Sir 
William Hoste, and the other officers engaged in that 
glorioi's conflict, speak in the highest terms of Pasqua- 
ligo's bcliaviour. There is the Abbate Morelli. There 
is Alvise Querini, who, after a long and honourable 
diplomatic career, finds some consolation for the wrongs 
of his country, in the pursuits of literature, with his 
nephew, Vittor Benzon, the son of the celebrated beauty, 
the heroine of " La Biondina in Gondoletta." There are 
the patrician poet Morosini, and the poet Laraberti, the 
author of the " Biondina," etc. and many other estima- 
te productions ; and, not least in an Englishman's esti- 
mation, Madame INlichelii, the translator of Shakspeare. 
There are the young Dandolo, and the improvvisatore 
Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accomplished son 
of an accomplished mother. There is Aglietti, and, 
were there nothing else, there is the immortality of 
Canova. Cicognara, Mustoxithi, Bucati, etc., etc. I do 
not reckon, because tne one is a Greek, and the others 
were born at least a hundred miles off, which, through- 
out Italy, constitutes, if not a foreigner^ at least a 
stranger {foresiiere). 



VI. 

Kxtrait de Vouvrage — Histoire litteraire cfltalie, par 
P. L. Gin^uene, tom. ix. chap, xxxvi. p. 144. Edi- 
tion de Paris, MDCCCXIX. 

" Ir. y a une prediction fort singulifere sur Venise : 'Si 
tu ne changes pas,' dit-elle a cette republique altiere, ' ta 
liberte, qui deja s'enfuit, ne comptera pas un siecle apr&s 
a. millieme annee.' 

"En faisant remonter I'epoque de la liberte Veni- 
tienne jusqu'a I'etabUssement du gouvernement sousle- 
quel la republique a fleuri, on trouvera que I'election 
du. premier Doge date de 697, et si I'on y ajoute un 
siecle apres mille, c'est-a-dire onze cents ans, on trou- 
vera encore que le sens de la prediction est litterale- 
ment celui-ci : ' Ta liberte ne comptera pas jusqu'a I'an 
1797.' Rappelez-vous niaintenant que Venise a cesse 
d'etre libre en I'an cinq de la Republique francaise, ou 
en 1799 ; vous verrez qu'il n'y eut jamais de prediction 
d'us precise et plus ponctuellement suivie de I'effet. 
Vous noterez done comme tres remarquables ces trois 
vers de I'Alamani, ^dresses a Venise, que personne 
jourtant n'a remarques : 

' Se non cangi pensier, I'un seed solo 
Non contera sopra '1 millesimo anno 
Tua libertk, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Bien des propheties ont passe pour telles, et bien des 
gens ont ete appeles prophetes a meilleur marche." 



VII. 

Extract from the Literary History of Ita,,y, hy P. L. 
Gingume, vol. ix. p. 144. Paris Edit. 1819. 

" There is one very singular prophecy concerning 
Venice : ' If thou dost not change,' it says to that proud 
republic, ' thy liberty, which is already on the wing, will 
not reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' 

" If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to 
the establishment of the government under which the re- 
pubhc flourished, we shall find that the date of the elec- 
tion of the first Doge is 697 ; and if wc add one century 
to a tliousand, that is, eleven hundred years, we shall 
'^d the sense of the prediction to be literally this : ' Thy 
2 c 2 42 



liberty wUl not last till 1797.' Recollect that Venice 
ceased to be free in the year 1796, the fifth year of the 
French republic ; and you will perceive that there never 
was prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed 
by the event. You will, therefore, note as very remark- 
able the three lines of Alamanni, addressed to Vemce, 
which, however, no one has pointed out : 

' Se non cangi pensier. Tun secol solo 
Non conterk sopra, '1 millesimo anno 
Tua liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Many prophecies have passed for such, and many me 
have been called prophets for much less." 

If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the above 
made by Alamanni two hundred and seventy years ago. 



The author of "Sketches Descriptive of Italy," etc 
one of the hundred tours lately published, is extremelv 
anxious to disclaim a possible charge of plagiarism 
from " Childe Harold" and " Beppo." He adds, thai 
still less could this presumed coincidence arise from 
" my conversation," as he had repeatedly declined an 
introduction to me while in Italy. 

Who this person may be, I know not ; but he must 
have been deceived by all or any of those who " repeat- 
edly offered to introduce " him, as I have invariably 
refused to receive any English with whom I was not 
previously acquamted, even when they had letters 
from England. If the whole assertion is not an inven- 
tion, I request this person not to sit down with the 
notion that he could have been introduced, since there 
has been nothing I have so carefully avoided as any 
kind of intercourse with his countrymen, — excepting 
the very few who were a considerable time resident 
in Venice, or had been of my previous acquaintance. 
Whoever made him any such offer was possessed of 
impudence equal to that of making such an assertion 
without having had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter 
abhorrence any contact with the travelling English, as 
my friend the Consul-General Hoppner, and the Coun- 
tess Benzoni (in whose house the Conversazione most- 
ly frequented by them is held), could amply testify, 
were it worth while. I was persecuted by these tourists 
even to my riding-ground at Lido, and reduced to the 
most disagreeable circuits to avoid them. At Madame 
Benzoni's I repeatedly refused to be introduced to 
them ; — of a thousand such presentations pressed upon 
me, I accepted two, and both were to Irish women. 

I should hardly have descended to speak of such 
trifles publicly, if the impudence of this "sketcher" 
had not forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous 
and gratuitously impertinent assertion ; — so meant to 
be, for what could it import to the reader to be told 
that the author " had repeatedly declined an introduc- 
tion," even had it been true, which, for the reasons I 
have above given, is scarcely possible. Except Lords 
Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale ; Messrs. Scott, 
Hammond, Sir Humphry Davy, the late M. Lewis, W. 
Bankes, Mr. Hoppner, Thomas IMoore, Lord Kinnaird, 
his brother, Mr. Joy, and INIr. Hobhouse, I do not ro 
collect to have exchanged a word with another English 
man since I left their country ; and almost all these 1 
had known before. The others — and God knows tlicie 
were some hundreds — who bored me with letters or vis- 
its, I refused to have any communication with, and sua! 
be proud and happy when that wish becomes inutu^. 



( 290 ) 
A HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



PREFACE. 



Iw puMishing the Tragedies o^ Sardanapalus, and of 
The Turo Foscari, I have only to repeat that they were 
not composed with the most remote view to the stage. 

Oo tl<e attempt made by the managers in a former 
mstanje, the pubUc opinion has been already expressed. 

With regard to my own private feelings, as it seems 
that they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nothmg. 

For the historical foundation of the compositions in 
question, the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The author has m one instance attempted to pre- 
serve, and in the other to approach the " unities ;" con- 
ceiving that, with any very distant departure from 
them, there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He 
is aware of the unpopularity of this notion, in pre- 
sent English literature ; but it is not a system of his 
own, being merely an opinion which, not very long 
ago, was the law of literature throughout the world, 
and is still so in the more civilized parts of it. But 
" Nous avons change tout cela," and are reaping the 
advantages of the change. The writer is far from con- 
ceiving that any thing he can adduce by personal pre- 
cept or example can at all approach his regular, or even 
irregular predecessors ; he is merely giving a reason why 
he preferred the more regular formation of a structure, 
however feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules 
whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure is in the 
architect, — and not in the art. 



SARD AN AP ALUS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



I^ this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
account of Diodorus Siculus, reducing it, however, to 
such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to 
approach the unities. I therefore suppose the rebelUon 
to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden con- 
spiracy, instead of the long war of the history. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
MEN. 

S akd ANA P ALUS, King of Nineveh and Assyria, etc. 

Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 

Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 

Sa».emexes, the King^s Brother-in-law. 

Alt A DA, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 

Pania. 

Zames. 

Sfero. 

Balea. 

WOMEN. 
/.ARiXA the Queen. 
Mykrha, an Ionian female slave, and the favourite 

of Sardanapalus. 
IVomen composing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 
Chiards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, 
Medes, etc., etc. 



Scene — a Hall in t'ne Roval Palace of Nineveh. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Palace. 

salemenes {solus). 

He hath wrong'd his queen, but still he is her lord ; 

He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 

He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 

And I must be his friend as well as subject; 

He must not perish thus. I will not see 

The blood of Nirnrod and Semiramis 

Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 

Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 

He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 

There is a careless courage, which corruption 

Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 

Represt by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 

Steep'd but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness 

If born a peasant, he had been a man 

To have reach'd an empire ; to an empire born, 

He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 

Which his sons will not prize in heritage : 

Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 

His sloth and shame, by only being that 

Which he should be, as easily as the thing 

He should not be and is. Were it less toil 

To sway his nations than consume his hfe ? 

To head an army than to rule a harem ? 

He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 

And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield not 

Health hke the chase, nor glory like the war — 

He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

\^Sound of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him, short of thunder. Hark ! the lute, 
The Ij-re, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of luUing instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel. 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by, to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odours of the perfumed trains, 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls. 
Who are his comrades and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels. 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less femak, 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. — 
He conies ! Shall I await him? yes, and front him. 
And tell him what all good men tell each other. 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



23] 



SCENE II. 

Enter Sardanapalus, effeminately dressed, his Head 
crowned vnth Flowers, and his Robe negligently Jlow- 
ing, attended by a Train of Women and young 
Slaves. 
SARDANAPALUS {speaking to some of his attendants). 
1*01 the pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there ; see nought wanting, 
\nd bid the galley be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river : 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We '11 meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
When we shall gather Uke the stars above us, 
And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs ; 
Till then, let each be mistress of her time, 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, choose, 
Wilt thou along with them or me ? 

MYRRHA. 

My lord 

SARDANAPALUS. 

■^y lord, my life ! why answerest thou so coldly ! 

H. is the curse of kings to be so answered. 

filule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouidstthou 

Accompany our guests, or charm away 

Che moments from me ? 

MYRRHA. 

The king's choice is mine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I pray ihee say not so : my chiefest joy 

Is to contribute to thine every wish. 

I do not dare to breath my own desire, 

Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art still 

Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 

MYRRHA. 

I would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine ; yet 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet ! what yet ? 
Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

MYRRHA. 

I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

SALEMENES {comes forward, and says). 
The Ionian slave says well ; let her retire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

^Vho answers ? How now, brother ? 

SALEMENES. 

The queen's brother. 
And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

SARDANAPALUS {addressing his train). 
As I have said, let all -dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[The court retiring. 
{To Myrrha, who is going.) 
Rl/rrha! I thought thou wouldst remain. 

MYRRHA. 

Great king, 
rhoa didst not say so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But thou lookedst it ; 
f know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
■nifih aaid - : _i wouldst not leave me. 



MYRRHA. 

Sire ! your brother 

SALEMENES. 

His consort's brother, minion of Ionia ! 
How darest thou name me and not blush ? 

SARDANjiPALUS. 

Not blush ! 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimscr 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blindness. 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha? 

SALEMENES. 

Let them flow on ; slie weeps for more than one, 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 

SALEMENES. 

Curse not thyself— millions do that already. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thou dost forget thee : make me not remember 
I am a monarch. 

SALEMENES. 

Would thou couldst ! 

MYRRHA. 

My sovereign, 
I pray, and thou too, prince, permit my absence 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 

Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 

That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 

An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrua, 

SALEMENES. 

It may be. 
Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Brother,, 
I can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this ; yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

SALEMENES. 

'Tis beyond 
That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
Which I would urge thee. Oh that-4 could rouse theti 
Though 't were against myself. • 

SARDANAPALUS. 

By the god Baal ! 
The man would make me tyrant. 

SALEMENES. 

So thou art. 
Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master, 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power. 
And those who should sustain it ; so that whcme. 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove lata'-. 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer , 
The last they rather would assist than vanouisii. 





Cy2 BYRONS 


WORKS. 


SARtANAPALrS, 


Who built up uus vasi ennnre, and wert made 


Wbr, what makes thee the nKwJb-piece rflhe people ? 


A god, or at the teast diinest bke a god 


SALEMEXES. 


Thrao^ the long cenuiries of thy renown, 


ForgiTeness of the queen, mj sister's wrongs ; 


This, thy presuii^ de^cendan^ lie'er beheW 


A natural love tmto my infant ne|Aews ; 


As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero. 


FaJth to the long, a feith he may n^d shortly, 


Won with thy bk>od, and toil, and time, and peril* 


In more than words; respect for Nnnrod*s Due; 


For \fhatl to ftimish him imposts fcr a revel 


AisOf another thing thoti knowest not. 


Or muUplied extortions for a minim. 


SAKDASAPALrS. 


S*RT>AXAPAl,rS. 


What's thai? 


I understand thee— thou wouldst have me go 


SAI.E9(EXi:S. 


Forth as a conqueror. Bv all the stars 


To thee an unknown wonL 


Which the Chaldeans read! the restless slaves 


SARDAXAPALrS. 


Deserve that I should curse them with their wkfaes, 


Yet speak it. 


And lead them forth to glory. 


Ikjvetoleank 


SALEMEXES. 


SALE3XXNES. 


Wherefore not? 


Fntue. 


Semirands— a woman only— led 


SARDAyAPALUS. 


Th^e our Assyrians to the sobr shores 


Not know the word! 


Of Gang^. 


Never was wotd yet nmg so in my ears — 


SARDAXAPAEtJS. 


Worse than the rabble's shout, or spUtting trumpet; 


'T is most true. And how r^ura'd? 


I Ve heard Ay asto- talk of nothing dse. 


SALEMEXES. 


SALEMEXES. 


Whv, Bke a sum— a hat> ; baffled, but 


To chanse the irksome theme, then, hear of vice. 


Not vanqinshM. With but twenty guards, die mad« 


SARPAXAPAtUS. 


Good her retreat to Bactria. 


* From whom? 


SARDAXAPALtJS. 


: SALEMEinSS. 


And how many 


Etoi firom toe winds, if thou oookist listen 


Left she bdiind in Imna to the vultures? 


Goto the edioes of the nation's voice. 


SALEMEXES. 


SARDASAPALUS. 


Oar anoals saynoL 


C<Hne, f 'm inAil^t as thou knowest, patieiit 


SARDAXAPALIFS. 


As thoa hast oftoi proved— speak out, what moves thee ? 


Tben I win say for them— 


SALE^reires. 


That die lad bett^ woven within h^ palace 


TTiyperiL 


Some twenty garments, than with twenty gaar& 


SARDASAPAtrS. 


Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens. 


Sav on. 


And wolves, and men— the fiercer of the three. 


SAT.KVESES. 


Her myriads of food subjects. Is tMg glory? 


Thus, then : all the nalioDS, 


Then lei me live in ignominy ever. 


For they are many, wbom thy father leR 


SALEMEXES. 


La hoitage, are kwd ji wrath asainst thee. 


AH wai&e q>irils have not the same rate. 


SARDA5APALCS. 


Senuramis, the gfonotK parent of 


'tiair 3t me ! What wouM the slaves ? 


A hundred kings, although she faiPd m India, 


SALEaiEXES, 


Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the reahn 


A king. 


Which die once swzv'd — and ihou mighlst swav. 


SAKDASAFALrs. 


E AE DA5 AP ALCS. 


And what 


I sw<n/ tbesn- 


AmlAen? 


She but subdued them. 


SAI-EMSXES. 


SAI.E>rEXX5. 


In their eyes a nothing ; but 


It may be ere kmg 


In mme a man who nught be something aitt. 


That they will need her sword more than yow sceptre 


SARDAXAPAtrS. 


SARDAXAPALCS. 


The raihng dnmkaids ! why, what would they have ? 


There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 


Have they not peace and plenty ? 


I've heard my Greek giris speak of such— they say 


SALEMEXES. 


He was a god, that is, a Grecian god. 


Of thefiist. 


An idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 


BIorethansgtorioGs; of the last, £ir less 


Who cooquer'd this same goWen reahn of Ind 


Than the king recks oC 


Thou pratest o^ where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 


SARD AX A Pa ETJS. 


SALEMEXES. 


Whose then is the crime. 


I have heard of such a man : and Ukni perceirest 


But tb«; fake satraps, who provide no better ? 


That he is deem'd a god for what he (fid. 


SALEMEXES. 


SARDAXAPAL0S. 


And vomewfaat m the mooarch who ne'er looks 


And m his gcdshi]) I will honour him— 


Beyonu ois palace walls, or if he stiis 


Not much as man. What, ho ! my cupbea»a » 


Be'voml them, 'tis but to some mountain palace. 


SALEMEXES. 


ri3 sQiBooer neats wear doutu O gkirioas Baal! 


What means the king? 



SARDANAPALUS. 



293 



SARDANAPALUS. 

To worship your new god 
And arTricnt conqueror. Some wine, I say. 
Enter Cupbearer. 
SARDANAi ALUS {addressing the Cupbearer). 
Bring me the golden goblet thick with gems, 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
Fill full, and Hear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 

SALEMENES. 

Is this moment 
A fitlinf; one for the resumption of 
rhy yet unslept-ofT revels ? 

Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 
SARDANAPALUS {taking the cup from him). 
Noble kinsman, 
'f these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these Our realms He not, this Bacchus 
Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not? 

SALEMENES. 

He did, and thence was deem'd a deity 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not so: — of all his conquests & few columns, 

Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 

Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 

The landmarks of tht seas of gore he shed. 

The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 

But here, here in this goblet, is his title 

To immortality—the immortal grape 

From which he first expressed the soul, and gave 

To gladden tliat of man, as some atonement 

For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 

Had it not been for this, he would have been 

A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 

And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 

A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 

Here 's that which deified him — let it now 

Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 

Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

SALEMENES. 

For all thy realms 
I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

rhat is to say, thou thinkest him a hero. 

That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 

Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 

Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 

The young, makes Weariness forget his toil. 

And Fear her danger ; opens a new world 

When this, the present, palls. Well, then / pledge thee, 

And him as a true man, who did his utmost 

In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks. 

SALEMENES. 

Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And if I did, 't were better than a trophy, 

Being bought without a tear. But that is not 

My present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 

Continue what thou pleasest. 

[To the Cupbearer). Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer. 

SALEMENES. 

r/ould but have recall'd thee from thy dream : 
Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Who should rebel ? or why ? what cause ? pretext ? 

I am the lawful king, descended from 

A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 

What have I done to thee, or to the people. 

That thou ihouldsl rail, or they rise up against me ? 

SALEMENES. 

Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But 

Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is 't ncJ tc 

SALEMENES. 

TViink ! Thou hast wrong'd her ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Patience, prince, and hear m«'' 
She has all power and splendour of her station, 
Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs, 
The homage and the appanage of sovereignly. 
I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
And loved her as most husbands love their wives , 
If she or thou supposedst I could hnk me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate. 
Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 

SALEMENES. 

I pray thee, change the theme ; my blood disda.ns 
Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And why not her brother ? 

SALEMENES. 

I only echo thee the voice of empires. 

Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The ungratefiil and ungracious slaves ! they murmu. 

Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 

To dry into the desert's dust by myriads. 

Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges ; 

Nor decimated them with savage laws. 

Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 

Or Babylonian walls. 

SALEMENES. 

Yet these are trophies 
More worthy of a people and their prince 
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines, 
And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Or for my trophies I have founded cities : 

There 's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 

In one day — what could that blood-loving beldamf? 

My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 

Do more, except destroy them ? 

SALEMENES. 

'T is most true ; 
I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both them and thee to coming agen 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though well biiiu 
Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
Thou wilt 'gainst me, mv mode of life or rule 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief recora. 
Why, those few lines contain the historv 



2'J4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of all things human ; hear — " Sardanapalus 

The king, and son of AnacynHaraxes, 

In oir jay built Anchialus and Tarsus. 

Eat, arink, and love ; the rest 's not worth a fillip." 

SALEMENES. 

A. worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up edicts — 
*' Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding — 
Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus- " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungroaning f^ the tomb ; I take no license 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 

SALEMEVES. 

Thy sires have been revered as gods 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In dust 
And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
A* 'east they banqueted upon 3'our gods, 
Ana died for lack of farther nutriment. 
Those gods were merely men ; look to their issue — 
I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 
But nothing godlike, unless it may be 
The thing which you condemn, a disposition 
To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
The follies of my species, and (that's human) 
To be indulgent to my own. 

SALEMENES. 

Alas ! 
The doom o*" Nineveh is seal'd. — Woe — woe 
To the unrivall'd city ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What dost dread ? 

SALEMENES. 

Thou art guarded by thy foes : in a few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What must we dread ? 

SALEMENES. 

Ambitious treachery, 
Winch has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empov/er mc with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, anu I lay 
Thf^ heads of thy chief foes oefore thy feet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

rhc heads — how many ? 

SALEMENES. 

Must I stay to number 
Wl.ftn even imne own 's in peril ? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

SARDANAPALUS, 

I \v>U trust no man with unlimited lives. 

Wh'^n wc take those from others, we nor knove 

What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

SALEMENES. 

Woiii'is" thpu not take their lives who seek for thine? 



SARDANAPALUS. 

That's a hard question. — But, I answer Yes. 
Cannot the thing be done without? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be arrested. 

SALEMENES. 

I would thou wouldst not ask me ; the next moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 

Even to the city, and so baffle all 

Trust me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
Take thou the signet. [Gives the Si§^nel 

SALEMENES. 

I have one more request. — 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Name it. 

SALEMENES. 

That thou this night forbear the banquet 
In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
And do their worst: I shall not blench for them ; 
Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

SALEMENES. 

But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if needful 1 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and 

A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 

And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth : 

A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 

And now I think on 't, 't is long since I 've used them, 

Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother ? 

SALEMENES. 

Is this a time for such fantastic trifling ? — 
If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Will I not ?— 
Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I '11 use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

SALEMENES. 

They say, thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That's false ! but let them say so : the old Greeks, 

Of whom our captives often sing, related 

The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 

Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 

The populace of all the nations seize 

Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 

SALEMENES. 

They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No; 
They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat, 
And never changed their chains but for their armour: 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the license 
To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
i would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What ! are the rank tongues 
Of this vile herd grown insolent with feeding, 



SARDANAPALUS. 



That J should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Tneir noisome clamour ? 

SALEMEXES. 

You have said they are men 
As sucli their hearts are something. 

SARDANAPALUS 

So my dogs' are ; 
And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast mj' signet: — since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd ; yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain, 
Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burthen 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
By mild reciprocal alleviation, 
The fatal penalties imposed on life ; 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe them : 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
Passing my own as suited me. 

SALE3IEXES. 

Thou stopp'st 
Short of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

SARDAX'APALUS. 

They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 

To be aught save a monarch ; else for me, 

The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

6ALEMEXES. 

There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 

SAPvDAXAPALUS. 

What mean'st thou ? — 't is thy secret ; thou desirest 
Few questions, and I 'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps, and since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 
They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
" The might)' hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were, 
But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 
IVIiai they have found me, they belie ; that vMch 
They yet may find me — shall defy their \vish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 

SALE^IE^'ES. 

Then thou at last canst feel ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Feel ! who feels not 
Ingratitude ? 

SALEMENES. 

I will not pause to answer 
With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

[Exit Salemexes. 

SARD AX AP ALUS {solus). 

Farew^ell ! 
He 's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 
Winch is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
As I am heedless ; and the slaves desen'e 
To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
I know not: — he hath found it, let him quell it. 



Must I consume my life — this little life — 

In guarding against all may make it less? 

It is not worth so much ' It were to die 

Before my hour, t live in dread of death, 

Tracing revolts : SLspecting all about me, 

Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 

Because they are afar. But if it should be so — 

If they should sweep me off from earth and empire 

Wh}', what is earth or empire of the earth? 

I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 

To die is no less natural than those — 

Acts of this clay ! 'T is true I have not shed 

Blood, as I might have done, in cceans, till 

My name became the synonyme oS death — 

A terror and a trophy. But for this 

I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 

If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 

Till now no drop from an Assyrian vein 

Hath flowed for me, nor hath the smallest com 

Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 

On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 

K then they hate me, 'tis because I hate not ; 

If they rebel, it is because I oppress not. 

Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scj'thes, not sceptres 

And mow'd down like grass, else all we reap 

Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 

Of discontents infecting the fair soil. 

Making a desert of fertility. — 

I'll think no more. Within there, ho! 

Enter an Attendant. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Slave, ter 
The Ionian Mprha we would crave her presence . 

ATTENDANT. 

King, she is here. 

MvRRHA enters. 
SARDANAPALUS {apart to Attendant). 
Away ! 
{Addressing Myrrh a.) Beautiful being ! 
Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest ; let mc 
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle, 
Communicates between us, though unseen. 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

MVRRHA. 

There doth. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I know there doth ; but not its name , 
What is it? 

MYRRHA. 

In my native land a god. 
And in my heart a feeling like a sod's. 
Exalted ; yet I own 't is only mortal. 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 

That is, it would be happy : but 

[MvRRHA paiise.1 

SARDANAPALUS. 

There come« 
For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, ana mine is seal'd. 

MYRRHA. 

My lord • 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My lord — my king — sire — sovereign ! thus it >• 



-29 r, 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



For ever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er 

Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 

Intoxicatmg glare, when the buffoons 

Havo gorged themselves up to equality, 

Or I have quaff'd me down to their abasement. 

Myi rha, I can hear all these things, these names, 

Lord — king — sire — monarch — naj^, time was I prized 

ihem, 
That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love, 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

MVRRHA. 

Would that we could ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And dost thou feel this?— Why? 

MYRRHA. 

Tlien thou wouldst know what thou canst never know. 

SARDANAPALtrS. 

And that is 

MYRRHA. 

The true value of a heart ; 
At least a woman's. 

SARDANAPA.LUS. 

I have proved a thousand— 
A thousand, and a thousand. 

MYRRKA. 

Hearts ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I think so. 

MYRRHA. 

Not one ! the time may come thou may'st. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It will. 
Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

MYRRHA. 

He did well. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And say'st thou so ? 
Thou vvhom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

MYBRHA. 

I should do both 
Mote frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou speak'st of peril — 
Peril to thee 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ay, from dark plots and snares 
From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what- a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Vhou Know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more on't — 
^\i\ of the midnight festival. 

MYRRHA. 

'Tis time 



To think of aught save festivals. Thou hasi no? 
Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What!— and dost thou feax^ 

MYRRHA. 

Fear!— I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death? 
A slave, and wherefore should 1 dread my freedom? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 

MYRRHA. 

I love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
Which, it may be, are menaced : — yet I blench not. 

MYRRHA. 

That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himself. 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and hves are not to be so lost. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief v/ho dared 
Assume to win them ? 

MYRRHA. 

Who is he should dread 
To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha ! 

MYRRHA. 

Frown not upon me : you have smiled 
Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject : 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you !— 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair. 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

MYRRHA. 

And without love where dwells security ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I speak of woman's love. 

MYRRHA. 

The very first 
Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips, 
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing. 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music, 

The very chorus of the tragic song 

1 have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime 

Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not— calm ihai. 

MYRRHA. 

I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their .and. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



20^ 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet oft 
7%oM speakest of them. 

MYRRHA. 

True — true : — constant thought 
Will overflow in words unconsciously : 
But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well, then, how wouldst thou save rae, as thou saidst? 

MVRRHA. 

By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst v/ar — the war of brethren. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors: 
T live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 

MYRRHA. 

Alas ! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
'T is sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And I have never sought but for the last. 

MYRRHA. 

And now art neither. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dost thou say so, Myrrha ? 

MYRRHA. 

I speak of civic popular love, self-love, 

Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 

Yet not oppress'd — at least they must not think so ; 

Or if they think so, deem it necessary 

To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. 

A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel. 

And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Glory : what 's that ? 

MYRRHA. 

Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They cannot answer ; when the priests speak for them, 
'T is for some small addition to the temple. 

MYRRHA. 

Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 

But what wouldst have ? the empire has been founded, 

I cannot go on multiplying empires. 

MYRRHA. 

Preserve thine own. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At least I will enjoy it. 
Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates ; 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return. 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
Crown'd with fresh flowers like 

MYRRHA. 

Victims. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, like sovereigns, 
The shepherd kings of patriarchal tunes, 
2D 43 



Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths. 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 

Enter Pania. 

PANIA. 

May the kmg live for over ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not an hour 
Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie. 
Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

PANIA. 

I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king. 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace : when the general returns. 
He will adduce such reaisons as wll warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What ! am I then coop'd ? 
Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Ass3a-ia raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

PANIA. 

I must obey, and yet 

MYRRHA. 

Oh, monarch, listen.— 
How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified, 
The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unworshipp'o, 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth. 
Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past fathers' race, 
And for thy sons' inheritance ? 

PANIA, 

'T is true ! 
From the deep urgency -mih which the prince 
Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, it must not be. 

MYRRHA. 

For the sake of thy realm? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Away! 

PANIA. 

For that 
Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

These are mere phantasies 
There is no peril : — 't is a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal, 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

MYRRHA. 

By all that 's good and glorious, take this counset 



2'J8 



BYRON'S WORKkS. 



SARDANAFALUS. 

Business to-morrow. 

MYRRHA. 

Ay, or death to-night. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

\Vliy, let it come, tnen, unexpectedly, 
'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
So let me fall like the pluck'd rose ! — far better 
Thus than be wither'd. 

MYRRHA. 

Then thou wilt not yield, 
Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

No. 

MYRRHA. 

Then yield for mine ; 
For my sake ! 

SARDANAFALUS. 

Thine, my Myrrha ? 

MYRRHA. 

'T is the first 
Boon which I e'er ask'd Assyria's king. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

That 's true ; and, wer 't my kingdom, must be granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
rhou hear'st me. 

FANIA. 

And obey. [Exit Pania. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

I marvel at thee. 
What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 

MYRRHA. 

'I'hy safety ; and the certainty that nought 
(Jould urge the prince, thy kinsman, to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou ? 

MYRRHA. 

1 {ecause thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

To-morrow ihou wilt smile at these vain fancies. 

MYRRHA. 

If the worst come, I shall be where none weep, 
And that is better than the power to smile. 
And thou ? 

SARDANAFALUS. 

1 shall be king, as heretofore. 

MYRRHA. 

Wbere ? 

SARDANAFALUS. 

With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 
Swe in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be : 
I will not live degraded. 

MYRRHA. 

Hadst thou felt 
TNijs always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

Ana who will do so now? 

MYRRHA. 

Dost thou suspect none ? 

SARDANAFALUS. 

Suspect f— that 's a spy's office. Oh .' we lose 



Ten thousand precious moments in vain words, 

And vainer fears. Within there ! — Ye slaves, deck 

The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 

If I must make a prison of our palace. 

At least we '11 wear our fetters jocundly : 

If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 

The summer dwelhng on its beauteous border. 

Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within there ! 

[Exit Sardanapalu* 

MYRRHA {solus). 

Why do I love this man ? My country's daughters 

Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 

The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 

And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 

To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 

The hour is coming when he '11 need all love, 

And find none. To fall from him now were baser 

Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 

Would have been noble in my country's creed ; 

I was not made for either. Could I save him, 

I should not love him better, but myself; 

And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 

In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger: 

And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 

That he is hated of his own barbarians, 

The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 

Could I but wake a single thought like those 

Which even the Phrygians felt, when battling long 

'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart. 

He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and triumpli. 

He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 

Her master, and would free him from his vices. 

If not, I have a means of freedom still. 

And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 

May show him how alone a king can leave 

His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 

[Exit 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

ITie Portal of the same Hall of the Palace. 

BELESES {solus). 

The sun goes down ; methinks he sets more slowly, 

Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 

How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds. 

Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain. 

Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 

I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray b}' ray 

The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 

For what he brings the nations, 't is the furthest 

Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 

An earthquake should announce so great a fall— 

A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 

To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 

Its everlasting page the end of what 

Seem'd everlasting ; but oh ! thou true sua ! 

The burning oracle of all that live, 

As fountain of all life, and symbol of 

Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 

Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 

Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 

All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 

A beam of hope athwart the future's years. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



299 



As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh ! hear me I 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
I have gazed on thee at thy nse and fa)J, 
And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 
vVhen my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd — ^but 
Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks- 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
Death, so it be but glorious ? *T is a sunset } 
And mortals may be happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter Arbaces, by an inner door. 

ARBACES. 

Beleses, why 
So wrapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
Our business is with night — 't is come. 

BELESES. 

But not 

Gone. 

ARBACES. 

Let it roll on — we are ready. 

BELESES. 

Yes. 

Vould it were over ! 

ARBACES, 

Does the prophet doubt, 
To whom thr: very stars shine victory? 

BELESES. 

I do not doubt of victory— but the victor. 

ARBACES. 

Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime, 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavihon. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Quaff 'd by the line of Nimrod. 

BELESES. 

'T was a brave one. 

ARBACES. 

And is a weak one — 't is worn out — we '11 mend it. 

BELESES. 

Art sure of that ? 

ARBACES. 

Its founder was a hunter — 
t am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 

BELESES. 

The soldier. 

ARBACES. 

And the priest, it may be ; but 
If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less" than mine? 

BELESES. 

Look to the sky ! 

ARBACES. 

Hook. 



BELESES. 

What seest thou ? 

ARBACES. 

A fair summer's twilight, and 
The gathering of the stars. 

BELESES. 

And midst them mark 
Yon earhest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

ARBACES. 

Well! 

BELESES. 

'T is thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 
ARBACES {touching his scabbard). 
My star is in this scabbard ; when it shines, 
It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer. 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and thou 
Shalt be the pontiff of— what gods thou wilt j 
For I observe that they are ever just. 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

BELESES. 

Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou hast not 
Seen me turn back from battle. 

ARBACES. 

No ; I own thee 
As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship ; now. 
Will it but please thee to forget the priest, 
And be the warrior ? 

BELESES. 

Why not both ? 

ARBACES. 

The better; 
And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne. 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
And hear him whine, it may be 

BELESES. 

Do not deem ti . 
He has that in him which may make you strife yet ' 
And, were he all you think, his guards are hardy. 
And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 

ARBACES. 

They'll not resist. 

BELESES. 

Why not ? they are soldiers. 

AREACfiS. 

Tiufc. 
And therefore need a soldier to command them. 

BELESES. 

That Salemenes is. 

ARBACES. 

But not their king. 
Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you aot 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

BELESES. 

i)Ut 

Not fi-om the council — there he is ever constant. 



300 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ARBACES. 

And ever thwarted ; what would you have more 
To 1 lake a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
His I flood dishonour'd, and himself disdain'd; 
Why, it is his revenge we work for. 

EELESES. 

Could 
He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 

ARBACES. 

WTiat if we sound him ? 

SELESES. 

Yes — if the time served. 
Enter Balea. 

BALEA. 

Satraps ! the king commands your presence at 
Ttie feassl to-night. 

BELESES. 

To hear is to obey. 
In the pavilion? 

BALEA. 

No ; here in the palace. 

ARBACES. 

How ! in the palace ? it was not thus orderM. 

BALEA. 

It is so order'd now. 

ARBACES. 

And why ? 

BALEA. 

I know not. 
May I retire ? 

ARBACES. 

Stay. 
BELESES {to Arbaces oside). 

Hush ! let him go his way. 
{AHematdy to Balea.) 
Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — v/as 't midnight? 

BALEA. 

It was ; the place, the Hall of Nimrod. Lords, 

I humble me before you, and depart. [Eocit Balea. 

ARBACES. 

I like not this same sudden change of place — 

There is some mystery ; wherefore should he change it ? 

BELESES. 

Dots: he not change a thousand times a-day? 

Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 

And moves more parasangs in its intents 

Than generals in their marches, when they seek 

To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

ARBACES. 

He loved that gay pavilion — it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

BELESES. 

And he loved his queen — 
And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all t lings by turns, except 
Wisdom and giory. 

ARBACES. 

Still— I like it not. 
If i.e has changed — why so must we ! the attack 
W ere easy in the isolated bower, 
Benet with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers ; 
Bu» in t}xe Hdl of Nimrod 

BELESES. 

Is It SO? 



Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily : does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

ARBACES. 

When the hour corned^ 
Thou shall perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd foi , 
But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

BELESES. 

I have foretold already — thou wilt win it : 
Then on, and prosper. 

ARBACES. 

Now, were I a soothsayer, 
I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their mterpreter. Who 's here ? 
Enter Salemenes. 



Satraps ! 



SALEMENES. 
BELESES. 



My prince ! 

SALEMENES. 

Well met — I sought ye both, 
But elsewhere than the palace. 

ARBACES. 

Wherefore so ? 

SALEMENES. 

'T is not the hour. 

ARBACES. 

The hour — what hour ? 

SALEMENES. 

Of jmdnighi 

BELESES. 

Midnight, my lord ! 

SALEMENES. 

What, are you not invited ? 

BELESES. 

Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 

SALEMENES. 

Is it usual 
Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 

ARBACES. 

Why — we but now received it. 

SALEMENES. 

Then why here? 

ARBACES. 

On duty. 

SALEMENES. 

On what duty? 

BELESES. 

On the state's. 
We have the privilege to approach the presence, 
But found the monarch absent. 

SALEMENES. 

And I too 
Am upon duty. 

ARBACES. 

May we crave its purport ? 

SALEMENES. 

To arrest two traitors. Guards ! within there 
Enter Guards. 



SALEMEITES (cOTlft'numg-). 



Your swords. 



Satraps 



BELESES {delivering his). 
My lord, behold my scimitar. 
ARBACES {drawing his sword). 
Take mine. 

SALEMENEs {odvandug). 
IwiU. 

ARBACES. 

But in your heart the blade — 
The hilt quits not this hand. 

SALEMENES {drawing). 

How ! dost thou brave me ? 
*T Is well — this saves a trial and false mercy. 
Soloiers, hew down the rebel ! 

ARBACES. 

Soldiers! Ay — 
Alone you dare not. 

SALEMENES. 

Alone ! foolish slave — 
What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength : thy tooth is nought without its venom — 
The serpent's not the lion's. Cut him down. 

BELESES {interposing). 
Arbaces ! are you mad ? Have I not render'd 
My sword ? Then trust Uke me our sovereign's justice. 

ARBACES. 

No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st of, 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body— so far that 
None else shall chain them. 

SALEMENES {to the Guords). 

You hear him, and me. 
Take him not — kill. 

[The Guards attack Arbaces, who defends him- 
self valiantly and dexterously till they waver, 

SALEMENES. 

Is it even so ; and must 
I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Areaces. 
Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

S ARD ANAPA LUS. 

Hold your hands — 
Upon your lives, 1 say. What, deaf or drunken? 
My sword ! oh fool, I wear no sword : here, fellow, 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus snatches a sword from one of the 
soldiers, and makes between the combatants — they 
separate. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In my very palace ! 
What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 

BELESES. 

Sire, your justice. 

SALEMENES. 

Or— 

Vour weakness. 

SARDANAPALUS {raising the sword). 
How? 

SALEMENES. 

Strike ! so the blow 's repeated 
Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I 'm conteni. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What— him ! 
Who dares a^sai. Arbaces ? 
2d 2 



SALEMENES. 
I? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Indeed ! 
Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 

SALEMENES {showing the signet). 
Thine. 

ARBACES {confused). 
The king's ! 

SALEMENES, 

Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I parted not from this for such a purpose. 

SALEMENES. 

You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then sheathe 
Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their sworas to 
the scabbards. 

SALEMENES. 

Mine 's sheath'd : I pray you sheathe not yours ; 
'T is the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 

{To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 

Well, sirs, 
What doth this mean ? 

BELESES. 

The prince must answer that. 

SALEMENES. 

Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Beltses ! 
That were an union I will not believe. 

BELESES. 

Where is the proof? 

SALEMENES. 

I'll answer that, if once 
The king demands your fellow traitor's sword. 

ARBACES {to Salemenes). 
A sword which hath been drawn as oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

SALEMENES. 

And now against his brother, 
And in an hour or so against himself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That is not possible : he dared not ; no — 
No — I '11 not hear of such things. These vain bicKennjr» 
Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues and baser 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You must have been deceived, my brother. 

SALEMENES. 

First 
Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty. 
And I will answer all. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why, if I thouglit so— 
But no, it cannot be ; the Mede Arbaces — 
The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best caotain 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I 'n not insult him thus, tc bid him render 





_^ 


302 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


The scimilar tu me he never yielded 


I love to see their rays redoubled in 


Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 


The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave. 


SALEMF.KES {delivering back the signet). 


As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 


Monarch, take back your signet. 


And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 


No, retain it ; 


Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods. 


But use it with more moderation. 


As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 


SALEMENES. 


Worlds or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 


Sire, 


There 's something sweet in my uncertainly 


1 used it for your honour, and restore it 


I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 


Because I cannot keep it with my own. 


Besides, I know of these all clay can know 


Bestow it on Arbaces. 


Of aught above it or below it — nothing. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


I see their briUiancy and feel their beauty — 


So I should; 


When they shine on my grave, I shall know neither 


He never ask'd it. 


BELESES. 


SALEMENES. 


For neither, sire, say better. 


Doubt not, he will have it 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Without that hollow semblance of respect. 


I will wait, 


BELESES. 


If it SO please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 


I know nori »vhat hath prejudiced the prince 


In the meantime receive your sword, and know 


So Strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 


That I prefer your service militant 


Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 


Unto your ministry— not loving either. 


SALEMENES. 


SALEMENES {oside). 


Peace, factious priest and faithless soldier ! thou 


His lusts have made him mad. Then must I save hiB 


Unit'st in thy own person the worst \'ices 


Spite of himself. 


Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


S^eep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 


Please you to hear me. Satraps ! 


for those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 


And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 


te, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 


More than the soldier, and woula doubt thee all 


By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 


Wert thou not half a warrior ; let us part 


BELESES. 


In peace — I '11 not say pardon — which must be 


Hear him, 


Earn'd by the guilty ; this I '11 not pronounce ye. 


My liege — the son of Belus! he blasphemes 


Although upon this breath of mine depends 


The worship of the land which bows the knee 


Your own ; and, deadUer for ye, on my fears. 


Before your fathers. 


But fear not— for that I am soft, not fearful— 


SARDANAPALUS. 


And so live on. Were I the thing some think me. 


Oh ! for that I pray you 


Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 


Let him have absolution. I dispense with 


Of their attainted gore from the high gates 


The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 


Of this our palace into the dry dust, 


Am mortal, and believing that the race 


Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 


From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 


They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that pass. 


BELESES. 


As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty. 


King ! do not deem so : they are with the stars. 


Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit, better men 


And 


Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 


SARDANAPALUS. 


And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 


Yoa shall join them there ere they will rise. 


And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 


It you preach further. — Why, this is rank treason. 


Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 


SALEMENES. 


Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 


My lord ! 


ARBACES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Sire, this clemency 


To school me in the worship of 


BELESES {interrupting him). 


Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 


Is worthy of yourself ; and, although innocent, 


Give him his sword. 


We thank 


SALEMENES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


My lord, and king, and brother, 


Priest ! keep your thanksgiving for Belus \ 


I pray ye, pause. 


His offspring needs none. 


SARDANAPALUS. 




Yes, and be sermonized, 


BELESES. 


And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 


But, being innocent 


And aU Chaldea's starry mysteries. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


BELESES. 


Be silent— Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 


Monarch ! respect them. 


Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not aratefuU 


SARDANAPALUS. 


BELESES. 


Oh ! for that— I love them ; 


So we should be, were justice always done 


love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 


By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 


Ana to c:ompare them with my Myrrha's eyes : 


Must oft receive her right as a mere favour 





SARDANAPALUS. 30:^ 


SARDANAPALUS. 


BELESES. 


That 's a good sentence for a homily, 


And lose the world ? 


Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 


ARBACES. 


To plead thy sovereign's catise before his people. 


Lose any thmg, except my own esteem. 


BELESES. 


BELESES. 


I trust there is no cause. 


I blush that we should owe our lives to such 


SARDANAPALUS. 


A king of distaffs ! 


No cause, perhaps ; 


ARBACES. 


But many causers: — If ye meet with such 


But no less we owe them ; 


In the exercise of your inquisitive function 


And I should blush far more to take the granter's^ 


On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 


BELESES. 


In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 


Thou may'st endure whate'er thou wilt, the stars 


Which are your chronicles, I pray you note. 


Have written otherwise. 


That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 


ARBACES. 


That him who ruleth many and slays none ; 


Though they came down, 


And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 


And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness. 


Enough to spare even those who would not spare him, 


I would not follow. 


Were they once masters — but that 's doubtful. Satraps ! 


BELESES. 


Your swords and persons are at liberty 


This is weakness — worse 


To use them as ye will— but from this hour 


Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead. 


I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 


And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 


FoOow me. 


ARBACES. 


[Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and the 


Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he spoke, 


JVain, etc., leaving Arbaces and Beleses. 


Even as the proud imperial statue stands, 


arbaces. 


Looking the monarch of the kings around it. 


Beleses ! 


And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 


beleses. 


BELESES. 


Now, what think you? 


I told you that you had too much despised him, 


ARBACES. 


And that there was some royalty within him. 


That we are lost. 


What then ? he is the nobler foe. 


BELESES. 




That we have won the kingdom. 


ARBACES. 

But we 


ARBACES. 


The meaner :— would he had not spared us ! 


What ! thus suspected— with the sword slung o'er us 


BELESES. 


But by a single hair, and that still wavering 


So- 


To be blown down by his imperious breath. 


Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 


Which spared us — why, I know not. 


ARBACES. 


BELESES. 


No— but it had been better to have died 


Seek not why ; 


Than live ungrateful. 


But let us profit by the interval. 


BELESES. 


'1 tie hour is still our own — our power the same — 


Oh, the souls of some men 


The night the same we destined. He hath changed 


Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 


Nothing, except our ignorance of all 


Fools treachery— and, behold, upon the sudden, 


Suspicion into such a certainty 


Because, for something or for nothing, this 


As must make madness of delay. 


Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously. 


ARBACES. 


'T wixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 


And yet 


Into— what shall I say ?— Sardanapalus ! 


BELESES. 


I know no name more ignominious. 


What, doubting still ! 


ARBACES. 


ARBACES. 


But 


He spared our lives — nay, more, 


An hour ago, who dared to term me such 


Saved them from Salemenes. 


Had held his life but lightly— as it is. 


BELESES. 


I must forgive you, even as he forgave us— 


And how long 


Semiramis herself would not have done it. 


Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 


BELESES. 


ARP ■ -JES. 


No — the queen liked no sharers of the kingdom, 


Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 


Not even a husband. 


Gave royally what we had forfeited 


ARBACES. 


Basely 


I must serve him truly- 


BELESES. 


BELESES. 


Say, bravely. 


And humbly? 


ARBACES. 


ARB ACKS . 


Somewhat of both, perhaps. 


No, sir, proudly — being honesu 


Rut it has touch'd me, and whate'er betide, 


I shall be nearer thrones than you to heave* ; 


I will no further on. 


And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 



304 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



You may do your own deeming — you have codes, 
And mysteries, and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
And now you know me. 

BELESES. 

Have you finish'd ? 

ARBACES. 

Yes— 
With you. 

BELESES. 

And would, perhaps, betray as well 
As qdit me ? 

ARBACES. 

That's a sacerdotal thought, 
And not a soldier's. 

BELESES. 

Be it what you will — 
Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 



ARBACES. 



No 



There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than m a phalanx. 

BELESES. 

If it must be so — 
1 'li on alone. 

ARBACES. 

Alone ! 

BELESES. 

Thrones hold but one. 

ARBACES. 

But this is mi'd. 

BELESES. 

With worse than vacancy — 
A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you ; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 
Of one or both, for sometimes both are one: 
And if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

ARBACES. 

Vour servant ! 

BELESES. 

Why not ? better than be slave, 
The pardon'd slave of she Sardanapalus. 

Enter Pania. 

PANIA. 

My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

ARBACES. 

It is ooey'd e-e spoken. 

BELESES. 

Notwithstanding, 
Let 's hear it. 

PANIA. 

Forthwith, on this very night, 
Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

BELESES. 

With our IrooDS? 



PANIA. 

My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

ARBACES. 

But 

BELESES. 

It must be obey\ ^ 
Say, we depart. 

PANIA. 

My order is to see you 
Depart, and not to bear your answer. 
BELESES {aside). 

Ay! 
Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

PANIA. 

I will retire to marshal forth the guard 

Of honour which befits your rank, and wait 

Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 

[Exit Panij 

BELESES. 

JVow then obey ! 

ARBACES. 

Doubtless. 

BELESES. 

Yes, to the gates 
That grate the palace, which is now our prison. 
No fui'ther. 

ARBACES. 

Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 
The realm itself, in all its wide extension. 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

BELESES. 

Graves ! 

ARBACES. 

If I thought SO, this good sword should dig 
One more than mine. 

BELESES. 

It shall have work enough ; 
Let me hope better than thou augurest : 
At present let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence ? 

ARBACES. 

Why, what other 
Interpretation should it bear ? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favours and a sword- 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is, or at least ivas, bloodless — 

BELESES. 

But will not, can not be so now. 

ARBACES. 

I doubt it. 
How many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties. 
Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how 
But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
So long and heavy. 

BELESES. 

Let us but regain 
The free air of the city, and we '11 shorten 
The journey. 

ARBACES. 

'T will be shorten'd a* the gate.s, 
i It mav be. 





SARDANAPALUS SOt 

1 


BELZSES. 


SALEMENES. 


No : they hardly will risk that. 


You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 


They mean us to die privately, but not 


I take my leave, to order forth the guard 


Within the palace or the city walls, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Where we are known and may have partisans : 


And you will join us at the banquet ? 


If they had meant to slay us here, we were 


SALEMENES. 


No longer with the living. Let us hence. 


Sire, 


ARBACES. 


Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 


If I but thought he did not mean my life 


Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 


BELESES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Fool ! hence — what else should despotism alarm'd 


Nay, but 't is fit to revel now and then. 


Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 


SALEMENES. 


ARBACES. 


And fit that some should watch for those who revei 


Towards our provinces ? 


Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 


BELESES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


No ; towards your kingdom. 


Yes stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 


There 's time, there 's heart and hope, and power, and 


My brother, my best subject, better prince 


means 


Than I am king. You should have been the monai za 


Which their half measures leave us in flill scope. — 


And I — I know not what, and care not ; but 


Away ! 


Think not I am insensible to all 


ARB.ACES. 


Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough, yet kind. 


And I, even yet repenting, must 


Though oft-reproving, sufferance of my follies. 


Relapse to guilt ! 


If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 


BELESES 


That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 


Self-defence is a virtue, 


The advice was sound ; but, let them Uve: we will i\:A 


Sole bulwark of all right. Away ! I say ! 


Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 


Let 's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking, 


Their banishment will leave nie still sound sleep, 


And the walls have a scent of night-shade— hence ! 


V^hich their death had not left me. 


Let us not leave them time for further council. 


SALEMENES. 


Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 


Thus you run 


Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 


The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors— 


The worthy Pania, from anticipating 


A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 


The orders of some parasangs from hence ; 


Still let them be made quiet. 


Nay, there 's no other choice but hence, I say. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


[E^t with Arbaces, who follows reluctantly. 


Tempt me not : 


Enter Sardaxapalus and Salemenes. 


Mv word is past. 




SALEMENES. 


SARDANAPALtJS. 




Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed, 


But it may be recall'd. 


That worst o^ mockeries of a remedy ; 


SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is royal. 


We are now secure b}' ihese men's exile. 






SALEMENES. 


s .lemenes. 

Yps 


And should therefore be decisive. 


As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 


This half mdulgence of an exile serves 


Twined round their roots. 


But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 




Or it is none. 


SARDANAPALUS. 




Why, what wouldst have me do ? 
salemenes. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


And who persuaded me 


Undo what you have done. 

SARDANAPALUS. 


After I had repeal'd them, or at least 


Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 


Revoke my pardon ? 


Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 


salemenes. 


SALEMENES. 


Replace the crov/n, now tottering on your temples. 


True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


If they e'er reach their satrapies — why, then, 


That vvere tyrannical. 


Reprove me more for my advice. 


SALEMENES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


But sure. 


And if 


SARDANAPALUS. 


They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safetv. 


We are so. 


In safety, mark me — and securitv — 


What danger can they work upon the frontier? 


Look to thine own. 


SALEMENES. 


SALEMENES. 


rhey are not there yet — never should they be so, 


Permit me to depan, , 


Were I well listen'd to. 


Their safety shall be cared for. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Naj^ , I have listen'd 


Get thee hence, then 


ImpvrtiaUv to thee — why not to them? 

44 


And, prithee ihink more gently of thy brother. 



50b 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SALEMENES. 

Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS {solus). 

That man is of a temper too severe : 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all ihe taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated wth flowers. 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 't is on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me oft-times for pain, and sometimes pleasure ; 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To court its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Nor Bial, though an oracular deity — 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 
Enter Myrrha. 

MVRRHA. 

King ! the sky 
Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and shovp 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tempest, say'st thou ? 

MYRRH A. 

Ay, mj good lord. 

SARDANAPiLUS. 

For my own part, I should be 
Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of tliose who dread the roar of clouds? 

MYRRHA. 

In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Jove — ay, your Baal — 
Ours also has a property in thunder, 
And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
Strikes his o'wn altars. 

MYRRHA. 

That were a dread omen. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not go forth 
Beyond the paJace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

MYRRHA. 

Now, Jove be praised ! that he 
Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself, 
And flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
Tu shield thee iVoni them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Child, if there be peril, 
ilcthuiKs n IS the same within these walls 
on the river's brink. 



MYRRHA. 

Not so ; these walls 
Are high and strong, and guarded. Tieason has 
To penetrate through many a windin«^ way. 
And massy portal ! but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, nor in the palace, 
Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
The men, or innocent or guiltj^, are 
Banish' d, and far upon their way. 

MYRRHA. 

They live, then? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So sanguinary ? Thou ! 

MYRRHA. 

I would not shrink 
From just infliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : wer 't otherwise 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

This is strange ; 
The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
And urge me to revenge. 

MYRRHA. 

'T is a Greek virtue. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But not a kingly one — I '11 none on't ; or. 
If ever I indulge in 't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

MYRRHA. 

These men sought to be so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

MYRRHA. 

For you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No matter — still 't is fear. 
I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath. 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian women. 

MYRRHA. 

My lord, I am no boaster of my love. 

Nor of my attributes ; I have shared your splendour, 

And will partake your fortunes. You may live 

To find one slave more true than subject myriads ; 

But this the gods avert ! I am content 

To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 

Rather than prove it to you in your griefs, 

Which might not jdeld to any cares of mine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Griefs cannot come where perfect love exists. 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let 's in — 
The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests, who grace our feast. 

[Exeunt 





SARDANAPALUS. SQ-J 


ACT III. 


ALTADA. 

Both- 


SCENE I. 


Both you must ev«r be by all true subjects. 


The Hall of the Palace illuminated.— Sarj} as apax^vs 


SARDANAPALUS. 


and his Guests at Table. — A storm without, and 


Methmks the thunders stiU increase : it is 


Thunder occasionally/ heard during the Banquet. 


An awful night 


SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA. 


Fill full ! Why this is as it should be : here 


Oh yes, for those who have 


Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 


No palace to protect their worshippers. 


Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ZAMES. 


That 's true, my Myrrba ; and could I convert 


Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure sparkles. 


My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


I'd do it. 


Is not this better now than Nimi-od's huntings, 


MYRRHA. 


Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 


Thou 'rt no god, then, not to be 


She could not keep when conquer'd ? 


Able to work a will so good and general, 


ALTADA. 


As thy wish would imply. 


Mighty though 


SARDANAPALUS. 


They were, as all thy royal line have been, 


And your gods, then, 


Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 


Who can, and do not ? 


The acme of Sardanapalus, who 


MYRRHA. 


Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 


Do not speak of that, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Lest we provoke them. 


And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Is but the path. What is it that we seek ? 


True, they love not censure 


Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it, 


Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck me 


And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 


Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be 


Making a grave with every footstep. 


Air-worshippers — that is, when it is angry. 


ZAMES. 


And pelting as even now ? 


No; 


MYRRHA. 


All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 


The Persian prays 


The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 


Upon his mountain. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise ; 


Yes, when the sun shines. 


Some say that there be traitors. 


MYRRHA. 


ZAMES. 


And I would ask if this your palace were 


Traitors they 


Unroof 'd and desolate, how many flatterers 


Who dare to say so !— 'Tis impossible. 


Would hck the dust in which the king lay low ? 


What cause ? 


ALTADA. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 


What cause? true,— fill the goblet up ; 


Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 


We will not think of them : there are none such. 


The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's, 


Or if there be, they are gone. 


And homage is their pride. 


ALTADA. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Guests, to my pledge ! 


Nay, pardon, guests, 


Down on your knees, and drmk a measure to 


The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 


The safety of the king — the monarch, say I ! 


ALTADA. 


The god Sardanapalus ! 


Pardon! sire. 


[Zames and the Chiests kneel, and exclaim— 


We honour her of all things next to thee. 


Mightier than 


Hark ! what was that ? 


His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 


ZAMES. 


\It thunders as they kneel; some start up in 


That ? nothing but the jai 


confusion. 


Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 


ZAMES. 


ALTADA. 


Why do ye rise, my friends ? In that strong peal 


It sounded like the clash of— hark again ! 


His father gods consented. 


ZAMES. 


MYRRHA. 


The big rain pattering on the roof. 


Menaced, rather. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 


No more. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in ordbr ! 


Impiety ! — nay, if the sires who reign'd 


Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st, 


Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 


Who in thy country threw 


'I'heir lineage. But arise, my pious friends, 




Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there : 


Enter Pania, with his Sword and Garments blomj,, ane 


I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 


disordered. The guests rise m confusion. 



308 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Pania {to the guards). 


PANIA. 


Look to the portals ; 


Scarce a furlong's length 


And \%ith your best speed to the wall without. 


From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 


Your arms! To arms! The king's in danger. Monarch! 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Excuse this haste,— 't is faith. 


Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Order my horse out— There is space enough 


Speak on. 


Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 


PANIA. 


To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 


It is 


[Exit Sfkro for the armow. 

MYRRHA. 


As Salemenes fear'd : the faithless satraps 


SARDANAPALUS. 


How I do love thee ! 


you are wounded— give some wine. Take breath, good 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Pania. 


I ne'er doubted it. 


PANIA. 


MYRRHA. 


'T is nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am worn 


But now I know thee. 


More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 


SARDANAPALUS {to his attendant). 

Bring down my spear, too. — 


Than hurt in his defence. 


MVRRHA. 


Where's Salemenes? 


Well, sir, the rebels ? 


PANIA. 


PANIA. 


Where a soldier should be, 


Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 


In the thick of the fight. 


Their stations in the city, they refused 


SARDANAPALUS. 


To march : and on my attempv to use the power 


Then hasten to him — : — Is 


Which I was delegated with, they call'd 


The path still open, and communication 


Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 


Left 'twkt the palace and the phalanx ? 


MYRRHA. 
All 


PANIA. 


'Twas 


PANIA. 

Too many. 

SARLiANAPALUS. 


When I late left him, and 1 have no fear : 


Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 


Spare not of thy free speech 


SARDANAPALUS. 


To spare mine ears the truth. 


Tell him to spare his person for the present, 


PANIA. 


And that I will not spare my own — and say, 


My own slight guard 


I come. 


Were faitliful— and what 's left of it is still so. 


PANIA. 


MYRRHA. 


There's victory in the very word. 


And are these all the force still faithful? 


[Exit Pania 




SARDANAPALUS. 


PANIA. 

No— 
The Bacmans, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 


Altada—Zames— forth and arm ye ! There 


Is all in readiness in the armory. 


See that the women are bestow'd in safety 


By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 


In the remote apartments : let a guard 

Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 


The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 


The post but with their lives — command it, Zames. 


An orb around the palace, v;here they mean 


Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 


To centre all their force, and save the king. 


Your post is near our person. 


{He hesitates). I am charged to 


[Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrh a. 


MYRRHA. 


Enter Sfero and others, with the Kingh arms, etc. 


'T is no time for hesitation. 


SFERO. 


PANIA. 


King ! your armour. 


Pnnce Salamenes doth implore the king 


SARDANAPALUS {arming himself). 


•J o arm himself, although but for a moment. 


Give me the cuirass — so : my baldric ; now 


And show himself unto the soldiers : his 


My sword : I had forgot the helm, where is it ? 


Sole presence in this instant might do more 


That 's well — no, 't is too heavy : you mistake, too— 


Than hosts can do in his behalf 


It was not this I meant, but that which bears 


SARDANAPALUS. 


A diadem around it. 


What, ho! 


SFERO. 


My armour there. 


Sire, I deem'd 


MYRRHA. 


That too conspicuous from the precious stones 


And wilt thou ? 


To risk your sacred brow beneath— and, trust me, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


This is of better metal, though less rich. 


Will I not? 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Ho, thfcie'— But seek not for the buckler; 'tis 


You deem'd ! Are you too turn'd a rebel ? Fellow ' 


Too tifcnvy : — a light cuirass and mv sword. 


Your part is to obey: return, and — no — 


U'Weie are thf rebels? 


It is too late — I will go forth without if. 



SARDANAPALUd. 



309 



SFERO. 

A.t least wear this. 

SAR\)ANAPALUS. 

Wear Caucasus ! why, 't is 
A mountain on my temples. 

SFERO. 

Sire, the iieanest 
SolJier goes not forth thus exposed to uattle. 
All men will recognise you— for the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her brightness. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I go forth to be recognised, and thus 

Shall be so sooner. Now— my spear ! I'marm'd. 

[In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
Sfero— I had forgotten— bring the mirror.' 

SFERO. 

The mirror, sire ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, sir, of polish'd brass, 
Brought from the spoils of India— but be speedy. 

[Exit Sfero. 

Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 

Why went you not forth with the other damsels? 

MYRRHA. 

Because my place is here. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And when I am gone 

MYRRHA. 

1 follow. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You ! to battle ? 

MYRRHA. 

If it were so, 
'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
I will aw^t here your return. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The place 
Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail ; and, if it should be so, 
And I return not 

MYRRHA. 

Still, we meet again. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How? 

MYRRHA. 

In the spot where all must meet at last — 
In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx ; and if there be not. 
In ashes. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dar'st thou so much? 

MYRRHA 

I dare all things, 
Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 
Re-enter Sfero rvith the mirror. 

SARDANAPALUS [looJdng at himself). 
This cuirass fits me well, the baldric better, 
And the helm not at all. INIethinks, I seem 

[Flings away the helmet, after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
Altada 1 Where 's Altada ? 



1 " Such the mirror Otho held 
In the Ulyrian field "—See JuvenaL 

2E 



SFERO. 

Waiting, sire, 
Without : he has your shield in readiness. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

True • I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me ; yet once more — once more- 
Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

MYRRHA. 

Go forth, and conquer ! 

[Exit SARDANAPALUS UTia SfERI? 

Now, I am alone. 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove ! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian. 
Who knows not of Olympus : yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Hark— to the \var shout ! 

Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small ital. 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught m« 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave :— where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout ! and now the clash 
Of arms — and now — and now — 

Enter Altada. 

ALTADA. 

Ho, Sfero, ho ! 

MYRRHA. 

He is not here ; wh^t wouldst thou witli him? How 
Goes on the conflict ? 

ALTADA. 

Dubiously and fiercely. 

MYRRHA. 

And the king ? 

ALTADA. 

Like a king. I must find Sfero, 
And bring him a new spear and his ovm helmet, 
He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light. 
His silk tiara and his flowing hau- 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features, 
And the broad fillet which crowns botli. 

MYRRHA. 

ye gods« 
Who fulmine o'er my fathers' land, protect him ! 
Were you sent by the kiiag ? 

ALTADA. 

By Salemenes, 
Who sent me privily upon this charge 



310 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armory- 
He must be there. [-E^t Altada. 

MYRRHA. 

'T is no dishonour — no — 
'T is no dishonour to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She- garb, and wielding her \'ile distaff; surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once, 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 



Enter an Officer. 



Lost, 



Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames? 

MYRRHA. 

Posted with the guard, appointed 
To watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit Officer, 

MYRRHA {sollis). 

He's gone ; and told no more than that all's lost! 
What need have I to know more ? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, all merged : and I, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaJting with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Enter Paxia. 

PANIA. 

Away ■with me, 
Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that 's left us now. 

MYRRHA. 

The king? 

PANIA. 

Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

MYRRHA. 

Then 
He lives 

PAXIA. 

And charged me to secure your life. 
And hes you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

MYRRHA. 

Wil! he then give way? 

PANIa. 

Not fill the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
The vpry palace. 

MYRRHA. 

They are here, then : — ay, 
Then shouts «'ome rinjnng through the ancient haHs, 



Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

PANIA. 

Away with me — away . 

MYRRHA. 

No ; I '11 die here ! — Away, and tell your king 
I loved him to the last. 

[Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes, tmtn 
Soldiers. Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges 
himself with them. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

Since it is thus. 
We '11 die where we were born — in our own halls. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have despatch'd 
A trustry satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they '11 be here anon. 
All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns towards Myrrha, 

SALEMENES. 

We have breathing time : yet one more charge, my 

friends — 
One for Assyria ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rather say, for Bactria! 
My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we '11 hold together 
This realm as province. 

SALEMENES. 

Hark ! they come — they coma 
Enter Beleses and Are aces with the Rebels. 

ARBACES. 

Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! Charge ! 

BELESES. 

On ! on ! — Heaven fights for us and with us — On ! 

[They charge the King and Salemenes with 
their Troops, who defend themselves till the 
Arrival of Zames with the Guard befort 
mentioned. The Rebels are then driven off^ 
and pursued by Salemenes, etc. As the 
King is going to join the pursuit, Belej^es 
crosses him. 

beleses. 

Ho ! tyrant — / will end this war. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Even so. 
My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject: — 3aeld, I pray thee. 
I would reser\'e thee for a fitter doom. 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 

BELESES. 

Thine hour is come. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, thine. — I 've lately read 
Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 

SELESES. 

But not by thee. 
[They fight: Beleses is wounded end rZw 
armed. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



311 



Sardakapalus {raising his sword to despatch him, 

exclaims) — 
Now call upon thy planets ; will they shoot 
From the sky, to preserve their seer and credit? 

[A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. 
They assail the King, who, in turn, is 
rescued by a party of his Soldiers, who 
drive the Rebels off. 
The villain was a prophet after aU. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

\Exit in pursuit. 

MYRRHA {to PaNIA). 

Pursue ! Why stand'st thou here, and leav'st the ranKs 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 

PANIA. 

The king's command was not to quit thee. 

MYRRHA. 

Me! 
Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 
Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say. 
Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then, / will go forth, 
A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 
And bid thee guard me there — where thou shouldst shield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrrha. 

PANIA. 

Yet stay, damsel ! She is gone. 
If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than him. 
Who never flash'd a scimetar till now ? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada and Sfero, by an opposite door. 

ALTADA 

Myrrha ! 
What, gone ! yet she was here when the fight raged. 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them? 

SFERO. 

I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their way back to the harem. 

ALTADA. 

If the king 
Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 

SFERO. 

Let us trace them ; 
She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than bis recover'd kingdom. 

-ALTADA. 

Baal himself 
Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it : he defies 
All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man 's inscrutable. 

SFERO. 

Not more than others. 



All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let 's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortured for his infatuation, and 

Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeiatt, 

Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, etc. 

SALEMF JES. 

The triumph is 
Flattering : they are beaten backward from the palace 
And wt, have open'd regular access 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be. 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where 's the king ? 
Enter Sardanap ALtJS, cum suis, etc. and Myrrha 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Here, brother. 

SALEMENES. 

Unhurt, I hope. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We 've clear'd the palace 

SALEMENES. 

And, I trust, the city. 
Our numbers gather ; and I have order'd onward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent ; give me a seat. 

SALEMENES. 

There stands the throne, sire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is no place to rest oa, 
For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[They place a seed. 
A peasant's stool, I care not what : — so — now 
I breathe more fi-eely. 

SALEMENES. 

This great hour has proved 
The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And the most tiresome. Where 's my cup-bearer ? 
Bring me some water. 

SALEMENES {smiUng). 

'T is the first time he 
Ever had such an order : even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Blood — doubtless. 
But there 's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure elemeni 
Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd, 
With greater strength than the grape ever gave mr. 
My charge upon the rebels. Where 's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his hemlet ? 

ONE OF THE GUARDS. 

Slain, sire' 
An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place il on his brows. 



312 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 


Slain! unrewarded I 


Of victory, or Victory herself, 


And slain to serve my thirst : that 's hard, poor slave ! 


Come down to hail us hers. 


Had he but lived, I would have gorged him %vith 


SALEMENES {aside). 


Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 


This is too much ; 


The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 


Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost. 


As I am now. [They bring water — he drinks. 


Unless we turn his thoughts. 


I live again— from henceforth 


{Aloud) But, pray thee, siro 


The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 


Think of your wound— you said even now 'twas painiid. 


But war on water. 


SARDANAPAIUS. 


SALEMENES. 


That 's true, too ; but I must not think of it. 


And that bandage, sire, 


SALEMENES. 


Which girds your arm ? 


I have look'd to all things needful, and will now 


SARDAfTAPALtrS. 


Receive reports of progress made in such 


A scratch from brave Beleses. 


Orders as I had given, and then return 


MYRRHA. 


To hear your further pleasure. 


Oh ! he is wounded ! 


SARDANAPALUS 


SARDANAPALUS 


Be it so. 


Not too much of that ; 


SALEMENES {in retiring) . 
Myrrha! 


And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 


Now I am cooler. 


MYRRHA. 


MYRRHA. 


Prince. 


You have bound it with 


SALEMENES. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


You have shown a soul to-nigni.^ 


The fillet of my diadem : the first time 


Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 


That ornament was ever aught to me 


I have no time : thou lov'st the king ? 


Save an encumbrance. 


MYRRHA. 


MYRRHA {to the attendants). 


Hove 


Summon speedily 


Sardanapalus. 


A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire ; 


SALEMENES. 


[ will unbind your wound and tend it. 


But wouldst have him king still ? 


SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA. 


Do SO, 


I would not have him less than what he should b*. 


For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 


SALEMENES. 


Know'st thou of wounds ! yet wherefoi-e do I ask ? 


Well, then, to have him king, and yours, ard all 


Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 


He should, or should not be ; to have him liv^. 


rh.3 minion? 


Let him not sink back into luxur}'. 


SALEMENES. 


You have more power upon his spirit than 


Herding with tlie other females, 


Wisdom witkm these walls, or fierce rebellion 


I ake irighten'd antelopes. 


Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA. 


No : like the dam 


There needed not the voice of Salemenes 


Of the young lion, femininely raging 


To urge me on to this ; I will not fail. 


(And femininely meaneth furiously, 


All that a woman's weakness can 


Because all passions in excess are female) 


SALEMENES. 


Against the hunter flying with her cub. 


Is power 


She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 


Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his ; 


Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers 


Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenbs 


In the pursuit. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SALEMENES. 


Myrrha ! what, at whispers 


Indeed! 


With my stem brother ? I shall soon be jealous. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


MYRRHA {smiling). 


You see, this night 


You have cause, sire ; for on the earth there breathes in 


Mttde warriors of more than me. I paused 


A man more worthy of a Avoman's love — 


To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 


A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 


Ifftf large black eyes, that fiash'd through her long hai' 


A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 


As it stream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 


Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 


Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 


Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 


Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din, 


That throws me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 


As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 


MYRRHA. 


Jarr'a but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 


And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 


Waved arms, more dazzling with their own bom white- 


Pray lean on me. 


ness 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Than the steel he nand held, which she caught up 


Yes, love ! but not from pain. 


K«oni a dead soldier's grasp ; all these things made 


[Exeunt 0711719- 



SARDANAPALUS. 



r,i 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

SARDANAPALUS dhcovered sleeping upon a couch, and 
occasionally disturbed in his slumbers, with Myrrha 
watching. 

MYRRHA {sola, gozing). 
I have stolen upon his rest, if rest it be, 
Wh -ch thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! 
Whose reign is o'er seal'd ej'elids and soft dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd, 
Look like thy brother, Death — so still — so stirless — 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unawakening twin. 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Oisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Fa'ntly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not j^et : who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
r quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and shake 
INIe more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let Nature use her o^vn maternal means, — 
And I await to second not disturb her. 

SARDANAPALUS {awakening). 
Not so — although ye multiplied the stars, 
And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. — Hence — hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes. 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Inde — away ! away ! 
VVhere am I ? Where the spectres ? Where — No — that 
Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha i 

MYRRHA. 

Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the drops 
G ather like night-dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world, 
And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer ; 
All will go well. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thy hand — so — 't is thy hand ; 
'T is flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

MY'RRHA. 

At least know me 
For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I know it now. I know this hfe again. 

Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be. 

MYRRHA. 

My lord ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I've been i' the grave — where worms are lords, 

45 



And kings are But I did not deem it so; 

I thought 't was nothing. 

MYRRHA. 

So it is ; except 
Unto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh, Myrrha! if 
Sleep shows such things, what may not death iisclose? 

MYRRHA. 

I know no evil death can show, which life 

Has not already shown to those who hve 

Embodied longest. If there be indeed 

A shore, where mind survives, 'twill be as mind. 

All unincoiporate: or if there flits 

A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 

Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and heaven. 

And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 

Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I fear it not ; but I have felt — have seen — 
A legion of the dead. 

MYRRH> 

And so have I. 
The dust we tread upon was once alive. 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
Speak it, 't will lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Methought 

MYRRHA. 

Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — exhausted ; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit: seek 
Rather to sleep again. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not now — I would not 
Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt : — and canst thou bear to hear P. 7 

MYRRHA. 

I can bear all things, dreams of life or death, 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And this look'd real, 
I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 

MYRRHA. 

Say on. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 
Here — here — even where we are, guests as we were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest. 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our accustom'd meeting. 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face — I could not recognise it. 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where ; 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet aghted ; his long locks curl'd do\ni 
On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
With shafl-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing. 
That peep'd up bristling through his se>-Dent hair . 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he answer'd not — 1 fiU'd ii— 
He took it not — but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the fix'd glare o*" his eye ; 



.^]4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



{ frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 
lie frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more, 
Be(;ause it clianged not, and I turn'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought tliem on the right, 

Where tnou wert wont to be. But 

[He pauses. 

MYRRHA. 

What instead .' 

SARDANAPALUS. 

[n thy own chair — thy own place in the banquet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
[nstead — a gray-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing, 
Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the passion 
Of vengeance, leering too with that of hist, 
hate ; — my veins curdled. 

MYRRHA. 

Is this all ? 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Upon 



Her ri^'ht hand — her lank, bird-like right hand — stood 

A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 

Her left another, fill'd with — what I saw not, 

But turn'd from it and her. But all along 

The table sate a range of crowned wretches. 

Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

MYRRHA. 

And felt you not this a mere vision ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No; 

It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 
I turn'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs; but no — all turn'd upon me, 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared, 
Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be. 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them. 
And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death i<. come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit b}' them. 
We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or earth And rather let me see 

Dralh all than such u. being ! 

MYRRHA. 

And the end? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At last I sate marble as they, when rose 
The hunter and the crew ; and smiling on me — 
■i'es, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say. 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
Thin lips relax'd to bomething like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still: 
A desperate courage crept through every limb, 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it, 
Aim grasp'd it — but it melted from my own, 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
Thfi memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 



MYRRHA 

And was ; the ancestors of heroes, too. 
And thine no less. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 
The female who remain'd, she flew upon me. 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses, 
And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Stiil she clung; 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if. 
In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome things 
Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet feehng- 
Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms. 
Purged by the flames, and wither'd in the au*: 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts^ 
Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
In all these agonies, and woke and founa thee. 

MYRRHA. 

So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 

Here and hereafter, if the last rcaj- be. 

But think not of these things — the tnsre areatio» 

Of late events acting upon a fram<5 

Unused to toil, yet overwTOUght by toil, 

Such as might try the sternest. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Now that I see thee once more, what w%s see-n 
Seems nothing. 

Enter Salemenes. 

SALEMENES. 

Is the king so soon awake ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept ; 
For all the predecessors of our line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them 
My father was amongst them, too ; but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter founder of our race 
And her, the homicide and husband-ki'ler. 
Whom you call glorious. 

SALEMENES. 

So I term you also, 
Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gatliering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How wears the night ? 

SALEMENES. 

There yet remain some hours 
Of darkness : use them for your further rest. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, not to-night, if 't is not gone : methought 
I pass'd hours in that vision. 

MYRRHA. 

Scarcely one ; 
I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour. 
But an hour only. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Let us then hold countU ♦, 
To-morrow we set forth. 



SALEME?JES. 

But ere that time, 
f had a grace to seek. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

'Tis granted. 

SALEMENES. 

Hear it, 
Ere you reply too readily ; and 't is 
For your ear only. 

MYRRHA. 

Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit MrRRHA. 

SALEMEXES. 

That slave deserves her freedom. 

SARDANAFALUS. 

Freedom only ! 
That slave deserves to share a throne. 

SALEMEXES. 

Your patience — 
'T is not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How ! of the queen ? 

SALEMENES. 

Even so. I judged it fitting for their safety, 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
For Paphlagonia, where our kinsmaji Colta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
Their just pretensions to the crown, in case 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I perish — as is probable : well thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

SALEMEXES. 

That 
Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My sons ? It may 
Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them. 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-wom smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

SALE3IEXES. 

But you can feel ; 
A-t least, I tiust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

SARDANAPALUS, 

Unto what end? what purpose ? I will grant 
Aught — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 

SALEMENES. 

You know, or ought to know, enough of women, 
Since you have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 't was her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Twill be useless: 
But let her come. 

SAL£MENES. 
I go. [Exit SaI.EM£IT£8. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

We have lived asunder 
Too long to meet again — smd nouo to meet I 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow. 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows. 
Who have ceased to mingle love? 

Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 

SALEMENES. 

INIy sister ! com age 
Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 

ZAP.INA. 

I pray thee, brother, leave me. 

SALEMENES. 

Since you ask it. 
[Exit Salemenes, 

ZARINA. 

Alone with him ! How many a year has past, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have vvom in viidowhood of heart. 
He loved me not : yet he seems little changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were mutual . 
He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and aspect. 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Zarina ' 

ZARINA. 

No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina, 

That tone — that word — annihilate long years. 

And things which make them longer. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let 's not reproach- - 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

ZARINA. 

And Jirst. I ne'er reproach'd }'0U. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T is most true ; 
And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

ZARINA. 

Nor hands ; but I gave both. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Your brother said. 
It was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with {He hesitates). 

ZAP.INA. 

Our children : it is tru<^. 
I Avish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
INIy heart from all that 's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you. 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
Once But they have not changed. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nor ever will. 
I fain would have them dutiful. 

ZARINA. 

I cherish 
Those infants, not alone from the bhnd love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Deem nt»« 
I have not done you justice : rather maxe thfrn* 



316 BYRON'S WORKS. 


Resemble your o\vi. line, than their own sire. 


ZARINA. 


[ trust them with you — to you : fit them for 


Now blessings on thee for that word ' 


A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 


[ never thought to hear it more — from thee. 


Of this night's tumults ? 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ZARINA. 


Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 


I had half forgotten, 


The slaves, whom I have nurtured, pamper'd, fed. 


And could have welcomed any grief, save yours, 


And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 


Which gave me to behold your face again. 


They reign themselves — all monarchs in their mai» 


SARDANAPALUS. 


sions — 


The throne — I say it not in fear — but 't is 


Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 


In peril ; they perhaps may never mount it : 


His death, who made their lives a jubilee : 


But let them not for this lose sight of it. 


While the few upon whom I have no claim 


I will dare all things to bequeath it them ; 


Are faithful. This is true, yet monstrous. 


But if I fail, then they must win it back 


ZARINA. 


Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 


'Tis 


Have wasted down my royalty. 


Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 


ZARINA. 


Turn poison in bad minds. 


They ne'er 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Shall know from me of aught but what may honour 


And good ones make 


Their father's memory. 


Good out of evil. Happier than the bee. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 


Rather let them hear 


ZARINA. 


The truth from you than from a trampling world. 


Then reay 


If ihey be in adversity, they '11 learn 


The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 


Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 


Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 


And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 


RDANAPALUS. 


Aly boys ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 


My life insures me tnat. How long, bethink you, 


ZARINA. 


Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ? 


Oh ! do not say so— do not poison all 


That is, where mortals are, not where they must be ? 


My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 


ZARINA. 


A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 


I know not. But yet live for my— that is, 


And honour him who saved the realm for them, 


Your children's sake ! 


So httle cared for as his own ; and if 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 


•T 's lost, all earth will cry out, thank your father ! 


I am the very slave of circumstance 


And they will swell the echo with a curse. 


And impulse— borne away with every breath ! 


ZARINA. 


Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 


That they shall never do ; but rather honour 


I know not what I could have been, but feel 


The name of him, who, dying like a king. 


I am not what I should be— lei it end. 


In his last hours did more for his o^vn memory, 


But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 


Than many monarchs in a length of days, 


To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 


Which date the flight of time, hut make no annals. 


Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I 've doted 


SARDANAPALUS. 


On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 


Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 


Devotion was a duty, and I hated 


But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 


All that look'd like a chain for me or others 


Shall be like their beginning— memorable. 


(This even rebeUion must avouch); yet hear 


ZARINA. 


These words, perhaps among my last — that none 


I'ei, be not rash— be careful of your Mfe, 


Ere valued more tiiy virtues, though he knew rot 


Uwe but for those who love. 


To profit by them — as the miner lights 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 


And who are they? 


That which avails him nothing ; he hath found it. 


A slave, who loves from passion— I '11 not say 


But 'tis not his— but some superior's, who 


Ambition— she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 


Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 


A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 


Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 


As one, for they are nothing if I fall , 


Nor poise it, but must grovel on upturning 


A brother I have injured— children whom 


The sullen earth. 


I havfj neglected, and a spouse 


ZARINA. 


ZARINA. 


Oh ! if thou hast at lengU 


Who loves. 


Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


I ask no more— but let us hence together, 


And pardons, 

ZARINA. 


And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 


I have never thought of this, 


Assyria is not all the earth— we '11 find 


Ana cannot pardon till I have coiideiun d. 

SARDANAPALUS. 


A world out of our own — and be more blo-J; 


Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 


Mv vvile 


An empire to indulge thee. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



sn 



Enter Salemenes. 

SALEMENES. 

I must part ye— 
The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 

ZARINA. 

Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh out 
Instauts so high and blest ? 

SALEMENES. 

Blest! 

ZARINA. 

He ha'b V«en 
So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

SALEMENES. 

So — this feminine farewell 
Ends as such partings end, in no depanure. 
I thought as much, and yielded against all 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

ZARINA. 

Not be ? 

SALEMEM.8. 

Remain, and pensh 

Z^KINA. 

With my husband — 

SALEMENES. 

\nd children. 

ZARINA. 

Alas! 

SALEMENES. 

Ilear me, sister, like 
^ly sister :— all 's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, ard of the boys too, our last hopes. 
"T is not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much — but 't is a point of state : 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 
The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush 

ZARINA. 

Ah ! do not name it. 

SALEMENES. 

Well, then, mark me : when 
They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 

ZARINA. 

But could not I remain, alone ? 

SALEMENES. 

What! leave 
Four children, wdth two parents and yet orphans — 
In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

ZARINA. 

No— 
My heart will break. 

SALEMENES. 

Now you know all — decide. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Zanna, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may l(»se all ; departing. 
You save the better part of what is left 
''^o both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
A.S yet beat in these kingdoms. 

SALEMENES. 

The time presses. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

<jo, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 



I may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for. 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 

Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than 

But I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 
Been of the softer order — hide thy tears — 
I do not bid thee not to shed them — 't were 
Easier to stop Euphrates at 'ts source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
Here when I had reman n'd myself. My brothe-. 
Lead her away. 

ZARINA. 

Oh, God! InevershaU 
Behold him more ! 

SALEMENES {striving to conduct her). 

Nay, sister, I must be obey'd. 

ZARINA. 

I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
What, shall he die alone? — / live alone? 

SALEMENES. 

He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
Have Uved for years. 

ZARINA. 

That's false ! I knew he lived. 
And Uved upon his image — let me go ! 

SALEMENES {conducting her off the stage). 
Nay, then, I must use some fraternal force. 
Which you will pardon. 

ZARINA. 

Never. Help me ! Oh ' 
Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 

SALEMENES. 

Nay — then all is lost again. 
If that this moment is not gain'd. 

ZARINA. 

My brain turns — 
My eyes fail — where is he? [Shefaint\, 

SARDANAPALUS {advancing). 

No — set her down — 
She 's dead — and you have slain her. 

SALEMENES. 

'T is the mere 
Faintness of o'er-wrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside.] 1 mu* 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
I' the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off. 

SARDANAPALUS {solus). 

This too— 
And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang ! But that is faloc — 
She loved mc, and I loved her. Fatal passion ' 
Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulf« 
A single deviation from the track 
Of human duties, leaas even those who clami 




The homage of mankind ns their born due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 
Enter Myrrha. 

SARDAS-APALUS. 

You here ! Who call'd you ? 

MYRRHA. 

No one — but I heard 
Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It forms no portion of your duties 
To enter here till sought for. 

MYRRHA. 

Though I might, 
Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours 
(Although they too were chiding), which reproved me, 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Uncall'd for : I retire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet, stay — being here. 
I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

MYRRHA. 

I wait with patience, 
What I shall see with pleasure. 

SARDANAPALCrS. 

Scarce a moment 
Befoie your entrance in this haF., Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

MYRRHA. 

Ah» 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Wherefore do you start? 

MYRRHA. 

Did I do so ? 

bARDANAPALUS. 

'T was well you entsr'd by another portal, 

Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her! 

MYRRHA. 

I know to feel for her. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That is too much. 
And beyond nature — 't is nor mutual. 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her. 
Nor sl-e aught but 

MYRRHA. 

Despise the favourite slave ? 
Ni >l more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 
And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 

MYRRHA. 

Were you the lord of twice ten thousand worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

sa:xdanapalus. 
Vou talk It well 

MYRRHA. 

And truly. 



SARDANAPALriS. 

In the hour 
Of man's adversity, all things grow daring 
Against the falling ; but as I am not 
Quite fallen, nor now disposed to bear repro?cbc»> 
Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
Let us then part while peace is still betwcsa u? 

MYRRHA. 

Part! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Have not all past human beings parted, 
And must not all the present one day part ? 

MYRRHA. 

Why? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

For your safety, which I will have look'd tO, 
With a strong escort to your native land ; 
And such gifts as, if you have not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom, 

MYRRHA. 

I pray you talk not thus. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The queen is gone 
You need not shame to follow. I would fali 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 

MYRRHA. 

And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Think well of it— 
It soon may be too late. 

MYRRHA. 

So let it be ; 
For then you cannot separate me from you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And will not; but I thought you wish'd it. 

MYRRHA. 

I? 
SARDANAPALUS. 

You spoke of yoiu: abasement. 

MYRRHA. 

And I feel it 
Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then fly from it. 

MYRRHA. 

'T will not recall the past — 
'T will not restore my honour, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph ; should 
Your lot be different, I '11 not weep, but share iU 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
And none could make me doubt it, save yourself. 
Those words 

MYRRHA. 

Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
This very night, and in my further bearing. 
Beside, wherever you are borne by fate, 

SARDANAPALoS. 

I am content ; and, trusting in my cause, 
Think we may yet be victors, and return 
To peace — the only victory I covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 



_ ^ — ) 

» 

SARDANAPALUS. 31? 


Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right, 


SALEMENES. 


Sits heavier on my heart than all the WTongs 


That were hardly pruden 


These men would bow me down with. Never, never 


Now, though it was our first intention. If 


Can I forget this night, even should I live 


By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 


To add it to the memory of others. 


I 've sent for by sure messengers, we shall he 


1 thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 


In strength enough to venture an attack. 


An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 


Ay, and pursuit too : but, till then, my voice 


A green spot amidst desert centuries, 


Is to await the onset. 


On which the future would turn back and smile, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 


I detest 


Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 


That waiting ; though it seems so safe to fight 


I thought to have made my reahn a paradise, 


Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 


And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 


Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 


I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 


Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not— 


Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 


My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them. 


My only guerdon— so they are, my JNIyrrha : 


Though they were piled on mountains, I would have 


\He kisses her. 


A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood !— 


Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life ! 


Let me then charge ! 


They shall have both, but never thee ! 


SALEMENES. 


MYRRHA. 


You talk hke a young soldier 


No, never ! 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Man may despoil his brother man of all 


I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 


That -s great or glittering : kingdoms fall — hosts jield — 


Of soldiership— I loathe the word, and those 


Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 


Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 


Than all, the most indebted— but a heart 


Where I may pour upon them. 


That loves without self-love ! 'T is here — now prove it. 


SALEMENES. 


Enter Salemenes. 


You must spare 




To expose your hfe too hastily ; 't is not 


SALEMENES. 


Like mine or any other subject's breath: 


J sought you. — How ! she here again ? 


The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Return not 


Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it- 


Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 


Prolong it— end it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then let us en^ both ! 


SALEMENES. 

The only woman whom it much imports me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 


'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong either , 
I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 


The queen 's embark'd. 


[A trumpet sounds wiOunU, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SALEMENES. 


And well ? say that much. 


Hark ! 


' 


SARDANAPALUb 


SALEMENES. 




Yes. 


Let US 


Her transient weakness has past o'er ; at least, 


Reply, not listen. 


It settled into teariess silence : her 


SALEMENES. 


Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 


And your wound ? 


Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Upon the palace towers, as the swift galley 


'T IS bound- 


Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the starlight ; 


'T is heal'd— I had forgotten it. Away ! 


But she said nothing. 


A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper 


SARDANAPALUS. 


The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 


Would I felt no more 


To have struck so weakly. 


Than she has said. 


SALEMENES. 


SALEMENES. 


Now may none this hour 


'T is now too late to feel! 


Strike with a better aim ! 


Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 


SARDANAPALUS. 


To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 


Ay, if we conquer; 


That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshall'd 


But if not, they will only leave to me 


By their two leaders, are already up 


A task they might have spared their king. Upf n iheni 


In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 


[Trumpet sounds again 


^"'renare to attack : they have apparently 


SALEMENES. 


Been join'd by other satraps. 


I am with you. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


What! more rebels? 


Ho, my arms ! again, mv arms 


Let us be first, then. 


\Exeu^ 



320 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 




BALEA. 


ACT V. 


Surely he is a god ! 




MYRRHA. 


SCENE I. 


So we Greeks deem too ; 


The same Hall of the Palace. 


And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 


Myrrha and Balea. 


Must rather be the abode of gods than one 


MYRRH A {at a window). 
The day at last has broken. What a night 
Hath usher'd'it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 


Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 


Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with iighl 
That shuts tlie world out. I can look no more. 


Though varied with a transitory storm, 


EALEA. 


More beautiful in that variety ! 


Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 


How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 


MYRRHA. 


And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 


No, 't was mere fanny ^ 


By human passions to a human chaos. 


They battle it beyond the wall, and not 


Not yet resolved to separate elements. — 


As in late midnight conflict in the very 


'Tis warring still! And can the sun so rise, 


Chambers ; the palace has become a fortress 


So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 


Since that insidious hour ; and here within 


Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky, 


The very centre, girded by vast courts 


With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 


And regal halls of pyramid proportions, 


And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 


Which must be carried one by one before 


In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 


They penetrate to where they then arrived, 


So like, we almost deem it permanent ; 


We are as much shut in even from the sound 


So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 


Of peril as from glory. 


Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 


BALEA. 


Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 


But they reach'd 


It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 


Thus far before. 


And blends itself into the soul, until 


MYRRHA. 


Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 


Yes, by surprise, and were 


Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not 


Beat back by valour ; now at once we have 


Know not the realms where those twin genii 


Courage and vigilance to guard us. 


(Who chasten and who purify our hearts. 


BALEA. 


So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 


jNIay thej 


For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 


Prosper ! 


The air with clamour) build the palaces 


MYRRHA. 


Where tlieir fond votaries repose and breathe 


That is the prayer of many, and 


liuefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 


The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 


Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 


I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 


The rest of common, heavy, human hours. 


How vainly ! 


And dream, them through in placid sufferance ; 


BALEA. 


Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 


It is said the king's demeanour 


Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 


In the late action scarcely more appail'd 


Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling. 


The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 


Which our internal, restless agony 


MYRRHA. 


Would vary in the sound, although the sense 


'T is easy to astonish or appal 


Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 


The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slav<v 


BALEA. 


But he did bravely. 


You muse right calmly : and can you so watch 


BALEA. 


The sunrise which may be our last ? 


Slew he not Beleses ? 


MYRRHA. 


I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 


It is 


MYRRHA. 


'ITierefore that I so watch it, and reproach 


The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 


Those eyes, which never may behold it more. 


Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd bJm 


For having look'd upon it oft, too oft. 


In fight, as he had spared him in his peril, 


Without the reverence and the rapture due 


And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 


To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 


BALEA. 


As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 


Hark! 


'J'iie Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 


MYRRHA. 


1 jrrow almost a convert to your Baal. 


You are right ; some steps approach, but si* iy 


BALEA. 


Enter soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wounded, -nth 


flis now ne reigns ^n heaven, so once on earth 


a broken Javelin in his Side : they seat him uioi oru 


H«^ sway'd. ;' 


of the Couches which furnish the Apartment. 


MYRRHA. 


MYRRHA. 


He sways it now far more, then ; never 


Oh, Jove ! 


»Jad crthly monarch half the peace and glory 


BALEA. 


'■Vhicji centres in a smgle ray of his. 


Then all is over. 







SARD AN AP ALUS. 



321 



SALEMENES. 

That is false. 
Hew aown the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

MYRRHA. 

Spare him — he 's none : a mere court butterfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

SALEMENES. 

Let him live on, then. 

MVRRHA. 

So wilt thou, I trust. 

SALEMENES. 

I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here ? 

SOLDIER. 

By the king's order. When the javelin struck you, 
You fell and fainted ; 't was his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

SALEMENES. 

'T was not ill done : 
For, seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
The sight might shsdce our soldiers — but — 'tis vain. 
I feel it ebbing ! 

MVRRHA. 

Let me see the wound ; 
I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant. 
We are nerved to look on such things. 

SOLDIER. 

Best extract 
The javelin. 

MYRRHA. 

Hold I n^, no, it cannot be. 

SALEMENES. 

I am sped, then ! 

MYRRHA. 

With the blood that fast must follow 
The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

SALEMENES. 

And I not death. Where was the king when you 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken? 

SOLDIER. 

Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 

SALEMENES. 

^Vhom heard ye 
Named next to the command? 

SOLDIER. 

I did not hear. 

SALEMENES. 

Fly, then, and tell him, 't was my last request 
That Zames take my post until the junction, 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Snsa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

S'OLDIER. 

But, prince 

SALEMENES. 

Hence, I say ! Here 's a courtier and 
A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I '11 have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 

[Exeunt the Soldiers, 

MYRRHA. 

GaUcJit and sloi ious spirit ! must the eartu 
2 F 4& 



So soon resign thee ? 

SALEMEXES. 

Gentle Myrrh a, 'tis 
The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 

MYRRHA. 

You wax paler, 

SALEMENES. 

Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth, 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My best brother ! 

SALEMENES. 

And the battle 
Is lost? 

SARDANAPALUS {despondingly). 
You see me here. 

SALEMENES. 

I 'd rather see you thus ! 
[He draws out the weapon from the wound, and diei 

SARDANAPAJUS. 

And thu^ I will be soon, unless tlie succour, 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes. 
Arrive witli Ofratanes. 

MYRRHA. 

Did you not 
Receive a token from your dying brother. 
Appointing Zames chief? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I did. 

MYRRHA. 

Where 's Zames 1 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dead. 

MYRRHA. 

And Altada? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dying. 

MYRRHA. 

Pania? Sfero? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Pania yet lives ; but Sfero 's fled, or captive. 
I am alone. 

MYRRHA. 

And is all lost ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our walls, 
Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i' the field 

MYRRHA. 

I thought 'twas the intent 
Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succolu » 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I overruled him. 

MYRRHA. 

Well, the fault 's a bravo f^n*;. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But fataL Oh, my brother ! I would give 



322 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



These realms, of which tliou wert the ornament, 
The sword and shield, the sole redeeming honour, 

To call back But I will not weep for thee ; 

Thou shalt be mourn'd for as thou wouldst be mourn'd. 

It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this life 

Believing that I could survive what thou 

Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 

If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 

Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement 

(The tears of all the good are thine already). 

If not, we meet again soon, if the spirit 

Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine. 

And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 

That yet warm hand, and fold Uiat throbless heart 

[Embraces the body. 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
I'he body hence. 

SOLDIER. 

Where? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

To my proper chamber. 
Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldiers with the body of Salemenes. 
Enter Pania. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well, Pania ! you have placed the guards, and issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

PANIA. 

Sire, I have obey'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 

PANIA. 

Sire? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I 'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and has 

A question as an answer to his question. 

It is a portent. What, they are dishearten'd ? 

PANIA. 

The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall. 
Have made them 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rage — not droop — it should have been. 
We 'U find the means to rouse them. 

PANIA. 

Such a loss 
Might sadden even a victory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Alas! 
Who can so feel it as I feel? but yet. 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, and we 
Have°those without will break their way through hosts. 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was — 
A palace — not a prison nor a fortress. 
Enter an officer hastily. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thv face seems ominous. Speak ! 

OFFICER. 

I dare not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dare not? 
Wn''e millions dare revolt with sword in hand ! 



That 's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

PANIA. 

Proceed, thou hearcst. 

OFFICER. 

The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroy'd the bulwark 

PANIA. 

That 's a black augury ! It has been said 
For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe." 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

OFFICER. 

About 
Some twenty stadii. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And all this is left 
Pervious to the assailants ? 

OFFICER. 

For the present 
The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel. 
And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks. 
The palace is their own. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That shall be never. 
Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to hoard and howl in. 

PANIA. 

With your sanction 
I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

About it straight, 
And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit, 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Office 

MVRRHA. 

Thus the very waves rise up 
Against you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They are not my subjects, girl. 
And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 

MVRRHA. 

I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I am past the fear of portents : they can tell nie 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight . 
Despair anticipates such things. 

MYRRHA. 

Despair . 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, not despair precisely. When we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 



SARDANAPALUS. 



323 



W ord than this is to g^ve it utterance. 

But what are words to us ? we have well nigh done 

With them and all things. 

MYRRHA. 

Save one deed — the last 
And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only thing common to all mankind, 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, natures, 
Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
Without one point of union, save in this. 
To which we tend, for which we 're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mystery call'd life. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our clew being well nigh wound out, let 's be cheerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
A,s children at discover'd bugbears. 

Re-enter Pania. 

PANIA. 

'Tis 
As was reported : I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters, 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Vou have done your duty faithfully, and as 
My worthy Pania I further ties betv/een us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 

[^Gives a hey. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
**ress'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 
Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 
klong its golden frame — as bearing for 
Y time what late was Salemenes). Search 
The secret covert to which this will lead you ; 
T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 
And your companions : there 's enough to load ye, 
Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
And all the inmates of the palace, of 
Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for pleasure. 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river 's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Fly ! and be happy ! 

PANIA. 

Under your protection ! 
So you accompany your faithful guard. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No, Pania ! that must not be ; get thee hence, 
And leave me to my fate. 

, PANIA. 

'T is the first time 
I ever disobey'd : but now 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So all men 
Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason fi-om without. Question no further ; 
'T is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it? thou I 

PANIA. 

But yet — not yet. 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Well, then, 
Sweai' that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

PANIA. 

With a heavy but true heart, 
I promise. 

SARDANA PALUS. 

'T is enough. Now order here 
Fagots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ; 
And heap them round yon throne. 

PANIA. 

My lord ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I have said it, 
And you have sworn. 

PANIA. 

And could keep my faith 
Without a vow. [Eccit Pania 

MYRRHA. 

What mean you ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You shall know 
Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forgeU 

Pania, returning with a Herald, 

PANIA. 

My king, in going forth upon my duty. 

This herald has been brought before me, craving 

An audience. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Let him speak. 

HERALD. 

The JHng Arbaces — 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What, crown'd already? — But, proceed. 

HERALD. 

Beleses, 
The anointed high priest 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Of what god, or demon ? 
With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
Reply to mine. 

HERALD. 

And Satrap Ofratanes 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why, he is ours. 

HERALD {^showing a ring). 
Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
His signet ring. 

SARDANAPALUS 

'T is his. A worthy triad ! 
Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
To see one treachery the less : this man 
Was thy true friend and my most trusted subjecu 
Proceed. 

HERALD. 

They offer thee thy hfe, and freedom 
Of choice to sinj;le out a residence 



su 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Condition that the three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 

SARDANAPALUS {ironically). 

The generous victors 1 

HERALD. 

1 wait the answer. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Answer, slave ! How long 
Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 

HERALD. 

Since they were free. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Mouth-piece of mutiny ! 
Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him, 

PANIA. 

I never yet obey'd 
Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
Put him to rest without. 

HERALD.. 

A single word : 
My office, king, is sacred. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And what 's mine ? 
That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down ? 

HERALD. 

I but obey'd my orders, 
At the same peril, if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So, there are 
New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

HERALD. 

My life waits your breath. 
Yours (I speak hunibly) — but it may be — yours 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent: 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peacefijl herald, imarm'd, in his office ; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

He 's nght. — Let him go free. — My life's last act 
Shall not be one of \vrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a golden cup from a table near, 
his crolden goblet ; let it hold your wine. 
And think of me ; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

HERALD. 

I thank vou doubly for my life, and this 

Most goigeous gift, which renders it more precious. 

But must I bear no answer ? 



SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes, — I ask 
An hour's truce to consider. 

HERALD. 

But an hour's'? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

An hour's : if at the ex|)iration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me. 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
And act befittingly. 

HERALD. 

I shall not fail 
To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And, hark ! a word more. 

HERALD. 

I shall not forget it, 
Whate'er it be. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Commend me to Beleses ; 
And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

HERALD. 

Where ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At Babylon. 
At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

HERALD. 

I shall obey you to the letter. [Eodt HeralL. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Pania! — 
Now, my good Pania! — quick ! with what I order'd. 

PANIA. 

My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see ! they enter. 

[Soldiers enter, and form a Pile about the 
Throne, etc. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Higher, mj' good soldiers, 
And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears aji aspect ! 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies ? 

PANIA. 

Ay, for a kingdom's. 
I understand you now. 

SARJ")ANAPALUS. 

And blame me? 

PANIA. 

No- 
Let me but fire the pile and share it with you. 
MYRRH .. 

That duty 's mine. 

PANIA. 

A woman's ! 

MYRRHA. 

'T is the soldie '» 
, Part to die for his sovereign, and why not 
1 The woman's with her lo\ er ? 



I- 



SARDANAPALUS. 



325 



PANIA. 

'T is most strange ! 

MYRRHA. 

But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it. 
In the meantime, live thou. — Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

PANIA. 

I should shame to leave my swereign 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

SA RD ANAP ALUS. 

Too many far have heralded 
Me to the dust already. Get thee hence 
Enrich thee. 

PANIA. 

And live wretched ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Think upon 
Thy vow ; — 't is sacred and irrevocable. 

PANIA. 

Since it is so, farewell. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Search well my chamber, 
Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

PANIA. 

That royal hano ? 
Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you ? 

[The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, 
kissing his hand and the hem of his robe. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My best ! my last friends ! 
Let 's not unman each other — part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make an eternity of moments, 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
JVow to be pitied, or far more for what 
Is i)ast than present ; — for the future, 't is 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be : I shall know soon. Farewell — farewell. 
[Exeunt Pania and the Soldiers, 

MYRRHA. 

These men were honest : it is comfort still 
That our last looks shall be on loving faces. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

\nd lovely ones, my beautiful! — but hear me! 
ff at this moment, for we now are on 
The brink, thou feel'st an inward shrinking from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, 
2 F 2 



For yielding to thy nature : and there 's time 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

MYRRHA. 

Shall I light 
One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without. 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

MYRRHA. 

Thou shalt see. 

[Exit Myrrha. 

SARDANAPALUS {solus). 

She 's firm. My fathers ! whom I will rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
If I have not kept your inheritance 
As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it. 
Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils. 
In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
To you in that absorbing element, 
Which most personifies the soul, as leaving 
The least of matter unconsumed before 
Its fiery working : — and the light of this 
Most roj'al of funereal pyres shall be 
Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 
A beacon in the horizon for a day, 
And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 
Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
Which led to such a consummation. 
Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one Han4^ 
and a Cup in the other. 

MYRRHA. 

Lo! 

I 've lit the lamp svhich lights us to the stars. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And the cup ? 

MYRRHA. 

'T is my country's custom to 
Make a libation to the gods. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And mine 
To make libations amongst men. I 've not 
Forgot the custom ; and, although alone, 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[SARDANAPALUS talics the cup, and after drin\ 
ing and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drcp 
falls, exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

MYRRHA. 

Why 
Dwells thy mind rather upon 'hat man's nam« 
Than on his mate's in villany ? 



.•r:6 BYRON'S WORKS. 


SARDAXAPALUS. 


I satiated thee with peace and joys ; and this 


The one 


Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing. 


Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 


Not even a grave. {He mounts the piU 


Of numan sword in a fiend's hand ; the other 


Now, Myrrha ! 


Is master-mover of his warlike puppet ; 


MYRRHA. 


But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 


Art thou ready ? 


My IVIyrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Freely and fearlessly ? 


Ag the torch m thy grtisp. 


MYRRHA. 


[Myrrha ^res the pile 


And dost thou think 


MYRRHA. 


A Greek girl dare not do for love that which 


'T is fired! I come. 


An Indian widow braves for custom ? 


[As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Then 


into the flames, tJie Curtain falls. 


W(> hnt await ihp wonnl 




»? c uut a.*!' ait Lii^ sigiiUrift 

MYRRHA. 




It is long 


NOTES. 


In sounding. 

SARDANAPALUS, 






Now, farewell ; one last embrace ! 


Note 1. Page 291, line 19. 


MYRRHA. 


And thou, my own Ionian -Myrrha. 


Embrace, but not the last ; there is one more. 


" The Ionian name had been still more comprehen 


SARDANAPALUS. 


sive, having included the Achaians and the Boeotians, 


True, the commingling fire will mk our ashes. 


who, together with those to whom it was afterwards 


MYRRHA. 


confined, would make nearly the whole of the Greek 


And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 


nation, and among the orientals it was always the gen- 


Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion, 


eral name for the Greeks." — Mitford's Greece, vol. i. 


Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 


p. 199. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Note 2. Page 294, line 1. 


Say it. 






The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 


MYRRHA. 


Jn one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 


It is that no kind hand will gather 


Eat, drink and love ; the rest 's not worth a fillip.' 


The dust of both into one urn. 


"For this expedition, he took not only a small cnosen 


SARDANAPALUS. 


body of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the 


The better! 


first day's march he reached Anchialus, a town said to 


Rather let them be borne abroad upon 


have been founded by the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. 


The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 


The fortifications, in their magnitude and extent, still 


Than be polluted more by human hands 


in Arrian's time, bore the character of greatness, which 


Of slaves and traitors ; in this blazing palace. 


the Assyrians appear singularly to have affected in worky 


And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 


of the kind. A monument, representing Sardanapalus, 


We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 


was found there, warranted by an inscription in Assyrian 


Hath piled in her brick mountains o'er dead kings, 


characters, of course in the old Assyrian language, which 


Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 


the Greeks, whether well or ill, interpreted thus : " Sar- 


Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis: 


danapalus, son of Anacyndaraxes, in one day founded 


So much for monuments that have forgotten 


Anchialus and Tarsus. Eat, drink, play: all other 


Their very record ! 


human joys are not worth a fillip." Supposing this 


MYRRHA. 


version nearly exact (for Arrian says it was not quite so) 


Then farewell, thou earth ! 


whether the purpose has not been to invite to civil order 


And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 


a people disposed to turbulence, rather than to recora 


Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 


mend immoderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be 


Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 


questioned. What, indeed, could be the object of & 


Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee ! 


king of Assyria in founding such towns in a country so 


SARDANAPALUS. 


distant from his capital, and so divided from it by an 


And that? 


immense extent of sandy deserts and lofty mountains, 


MYRRHA. 


and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once \r. 


Is yours. 


circumstances to abandon themselves to the intemperate 


[The trumpet of Pania sounds vniJiout. 


joys which their prince has been supposed to have recom- 


SARDANAPALUS. 


mended, is not obvious ; but it may deserve observation 


«ark! 


that, in that line of coast, the southern of Lesser Asia, 


MYRRHA. 


ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexander, yei 


Now! 


barely named in history, at this day astonish the adven- 


VARDANAPALUS. 


turous traveller by their magnificence and elegance. 


Adieu, AssjTiaJ 


Amid the desolation which, under a singularly barbarian 


1 lovea tnee well, my o^vn, my father's land, 


government, has, for so many centuries, been daily 


And ])ettpr as my country than my kingdom. 


spreading in the finest countries of the globe, whc'iei 



more from soil and climate, or from opportunities for 
commerce, extraordinary means must have been found 
for communities to flourish there, whence it may seem 
that the measures of Sardanapalus were directed by just er 
views :han have been commonly ascribed to him ; but 
that monarch having been the last of a dynasty, ended 



by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would follow 
of course from the policy of his successors and their 
partisans. 

"The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sarda- 
napalus is striking in Diodorus's account of him."— 
Mitford^s Greece, vol. ix. pp. 311, 312, and 313. 



A HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



The father softens, but the governor's resolved. 

CRITIC. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 

Francis FoscARi, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Warco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 

Other Senaiont, the Council of Ten, Guards, Attend- 
ants, etc., etc. 



Marin.' 



WOMAN. 

Wife of young Foscari. 



Scene — The Ducal Palace, Venice. 



THE TWO FOSCARI 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 

LOREDANO. 

Where is the prisoner? 

barbarigo. 

Reposing from 
The Question. 

LOREDANO. 

The hour's past — fix'd yesterday 
For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Urge his recall. 

barbarigo. 
Nay, let him profit by 
A iew brief minutes for his tortured hmbs ; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday, 
And may die under it if now repeated. 

LOREDANO. 

Well ! 

BARBARIGO. 

I yield not to you in love of jstice, 
Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 



But the poor wretch has suffered beyond rature's 
Most stoical endurance. 

LOREDANO. 

Without owning 
His crime. 

BARBARIGO. 

Perhaps without committing any. 
But he avovv'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

LOREDANO. 

We shall see. 

BARBARIGO. 

You, Loredano 
Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

LOREDANO. 

How far? 

BARBARIGO. 

To extermination. 

LOREDANO. 

When they are 
Extinct, you may say this.— Let's into council. 

BARBARIGO. 

Yet pause — tne number of our colleagues is not 
Complete yet; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

LOREDANO. 

And the chief judge, the Doge ? 

BARBARIGO. 

No — ne. 
With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

LOREDANO. 

True — true— ' 
His last. 

BARBARIGO. 

Will nothing move you? 

LOREDANO. 

Feels he, thmk you 

BARBARIGO. 

He shows it not. 

LOREDANO. 

I have mark'd thai — the wretch ' 

BARBARIGO. 

But yesterday, I hear, on his return 



To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold, 
The Old man fointf'd. 

LOREDANO. 

It begins to work, then. 

BARBARIGO. 

The work is half your own. 

LOREDANO. 

And should be cdl mine— 
My father and my uncle are no more. 

BARBARIGO. 

I have read their epitaph, which saj'S they died 
By poison. 

LOREDAXO. 

When the Doge declared that he 
Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sickea'd shortly :— he is sovereign. 

BARBARIGO. 

A. wTetched one. 

LOREDASO. 

\Yhat should they be who make 
Orphans? 

BARBARIGO. 

But did the Doge make you so ? 

LOREDANO. 

Yes. 

BARBARIGO. 

What solid proofs ? 

LOREDAXO 

When princes set themselves 
To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficuii; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 

BARBARIGO. 

But you will move by law? 

LOREDAXO. 

By all the laws 
Which he would leave us. 

BARBARIGO. 

They are such in this 
Our state as render retribution easier 
Than "raongst remoter nations. Is it true 
Thut you have ^vritten in your books of commerce 
(The wealtiiy practice of our highest nobles), 
"Do^e Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of JNIarco and Pietro Loredano, 
My siie and uncle?" 

LOREDAXO. 

It is written thus. 

BARBARIGO. 

Ana will you leave it unerased ? 

LOREDANO. 

TiU balanced. 

BARBARIGO. 

And how ? 

( 7\vo Senators pass over the Sta^e, as m their tcay to 
the Hall of the Council of Ten). 

LOREDAN* 

You sec the number is complete 
r olio^' me. [^^ Loredano 

BARBARIGO {solus). 

Follow thee ! I have foUow-d long 
Thj path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
i\ho shrieks wxhin its riven ribs, as gush 



The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them — Oh ! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, where he comes! — Be still, my heart! they are 
Thy foes, must be thy victims: wilt thou beat 
For those who ahnost broke thee ? 
Enter Gtiardi, with young Foscari as prisoner, etc, 

GUARD. 

Let him rest. 
Sienor, take time. 

JACOFO FOSCARI. 

I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble ; 
But thou may'st stand reproved. 

GUARD. 

I '11 stand the hazara 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That's kmd : — I meet some pity, but no mercy ; 
This is the first. 

GUARD. 

And might be the last, did they 
>Yho rule behold us. 

BARBARIGO {advancing to the guard). 
There is one who does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past. 
Wait their last summons — I am of "the Ten," 
And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence : when the last call sounds 
We '11 in together. — Look well to the prisoner • 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

What voice is that? — 'tis Baj-barigo's ! Ah ! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

BARBARIGO. 

To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

True, 
He judges. 

BARBARIGO. 

Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And his son's. I 'ra faints 
Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 
Enter an Officer, who whispers Barbaric o. 
BARBARIGO {to Hie g^iord). 
Let him approach. I must not speak with bim 
Further than thus ; I have transgress'd mj' duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. 

[Exit Bareariw, 

[Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the window, 

GUARD. 

There, sir, 'tis 
Open — How feel you ? 

•TACOPO FOSCARI. 

Like a boy — Oh Venice I 

GUARD. 

And your limbs ? 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 3^9 


JACOPO FOSCARl. 


I ask no more than a Venetian grave— 


Limbs ! how often have they borne me 


A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 


Bounding o er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd 




The gondola along in childish race, 


Enter an Officer, 


And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 


OFFICER. 


JVIy gay competitors, noble as I, 


Bring in the prisoner ! 


Raced for our pleasure in the pride of strength, 


GUARD. 


While tne fair populace of crowding beauties, 


Signor, you hear the order. 


Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 


. A.C0P0 FOSCARl. 


With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible, 


Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 't is 


And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 


The third time they have tortured me .-—then lend me 


Even to the goal ! — How many a time have 1 


Thine arm. [To the Guard 


Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 


OlFICER. 


The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's,stroke 


Take mine, sir ; 't is my duty to 


Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 


Be nearest to your person. 


And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 


JACOPO FOSCARl. 


Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 


You ! — you are he 


The waves as they arose, and prouder still 


Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs— 


The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft. 


Away !— I '11 walk alone. 


In -.vanlonness of spirit, plunging down 


OFFICER. 


Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 


As you please, signor ; 


My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 


The sentence was not of my signing, but 


By those above, till they wax'd fearfijl ; then 


I dared not disobey the Council, when 


Returning with my grasp fu!! of such tokens 


They 


As show'd that I had search'd the deep ; exulting, 


JACOPO FObOARI. 


With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 


Bade thee stretch me on their horrid engine. 


The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 


I pray thee touch me not— that is, just now ; 


1 he foam which broke around me, and pursued 


The time will come they will renew that order, 


My track like a sea-bird.— I was a boy then. 


But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 


GUARD. 


I look upon thy hands, my curdling limbs 


Be a man now; there never was more need 


Quiver with the anticipated wrenching. 


Of manhood's strength. 


And the cold drops strain th-ough my brow as if 


JACOPO FOSCARl {looMng from the lattice). 


But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 


My beautiful, my own, 


How looks my father ? 


My only Yemce—this is breath ! Thy breeze, 


OFFICER. 


Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 


With his wonted aspect. 


The very winds feel native to my veins, 


JACOPO FOSCARl. 


And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 


So doth the earth, and sky, the blue of ocean, 


The hot gales of the hoiTid Cyclades, 


The brightness of our city, and her domes, 


Which hovd'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 


The mirth of her Piazza, even now 


Made my heart sick. 


Its merry hum of nations pierces here. 


GUARD. 


Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 


I see the colour comes 


Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'u 


Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to bear 


Judged and destroy'd in silence— all things wear 


What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on 't. 


The self-same aspect, to my very sire 


JACOPO FOSCARl. 


Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 


They will not banish me again ?— No— no, 


Not even a Foscari.— Sir, I attend you. 


Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 


[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, jw 


GUARD. 

Confess, 


£■72^0- Memmo and another Senator. 


And the rack will be spared you. 


MEMMO. 


JACOPO FOSCARl 


He's gone— we are too late :— think yoa "the Tea ' 


I confess'd 


Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 


Once — twice before : both times they exiled me. 


senator. 


GUARD. 


They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 


And the third time will slay you. 


Persisting in his first avowal ; but 


JACOPO FOSCARl. 


More I know not. 


Let them do so. 


MEMMO. 


So I be buried in my birth-place : better 


And that is much ; the secrets 


Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 


Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 


GUARD. 


From us, the premier nobles of the state, 


And can you so much love the soil which hates you ? 


As from the people. 


JACOPO FOSCARl. 


SENATOR. 


The soil !— Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 


Save the wonted rumours, 


Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 


Which (like the tales of spectres that are me 


Will take me as a mother to her arms. 1 
47 


Near ruin'd buildings) never have been proved. 



130 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathom'd mysteries. 

MEMMO. 

But with length of time 
We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

SENATOR. 

Or Doge ? 

MEMMO. 

Why, no, not if I can avoid it. 

SENATOR. 

'T is the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attam'd by noble aspirants. 

MEMMO. 

To such 
I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I 'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 

Enter Marina, with a female attendant. 

MARINA. 

What, no one ? — I am wrong, there still are two ; 
But they are senators. 

MEMMO. 

Most noble lady, 
Command us. 

MARINA. 

/ command ! Alis ! my life 
lias been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

MEMMO. 

I understand thee, but I must not answer. 

MARINA {^fiercely). 
True — none dare answer here save on the rack, 

Or question save those 

MEMMO {interrupting her). 

High-born dame ! bethink thee 
Where thou nov/ art. 

MARINA. 

Where I now am! — It was 
My husband's father's palace. 

MEMMO. 

The Duke's palace. 

MARINA. 

Ajid his son's prison ;— true, I have not forgot it ; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Rt-membrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

MEMMO. 

Be calm. 

MARINA {looking up towards heaven). 
1 am ; but oh, thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world? 

MEMMO. 

Tliy husband yet may be absolved. 

MARINA. 

He is, 
In heaven. I pray you, signor senator. 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge j he has a son at stake, 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had : they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
Will /w? condemn him ? 



MEMMO. 

1 trust not. 

MARINA. 

But if 
He does not, there are those will sentence boti» . 

MEMMO. 

They can. 

MARINA. 

And with them power and will are one 
In wickedness : — my husband 's lost ! 

MEMMO. 

Not so ; 
Justice is judge in Venice. 

MARINA. 

If it were so 
There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but "the Ten's " is quicker. 
And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 

[A faint cry within, 

SENATOR. 

Hark! 

MEMMO. 

'T was a cry of 

MARINA. 

No, no ; not my husband's— 
Not Foscari's. 

MEMMO. 

The voice was^^ 

MARINA. 

JVot his; no. 
He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part. 
Not his— not his — he '11 die in silence. 

[A faint groan again tvitktTk, 

MEMMO. 

What! 
Again? 

MARINA. 

His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
A fearful pang which wrung a groan from him. 

SENATOR. 

And feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain in silence ? 

MARINA. 

We all must bear cur tortures. I have not 

Left barren the great house of Foscari, 

Though they sweep both the Doge and son from Iitei 

I have endured as much in giving life 

To those who will succeed them, as they can 

In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs ; 

And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd, 

But did not, for my hope was to bring forth 

Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears 

MEMMO. 

All 's silent now. 

MARINA. 

Perhaps all 's over ; but 
I will not deem it : he hath nerved himself^ 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

MEMMO. 

How now, friend, what seek yoa ' 



OFFICER. 

A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

[Exit Officer. 

MEMMO. 

Lady, 
*T«/vere better to retire. 

SENATOR {offering to assist her). 
I pray thee do so. 

MARINA. 

Off! / will tend him. 

MEMMO. 

You ! Remember, lady ! 
Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
Except- "the Ten," and their familiars. 

MARINA. 

Well, 
I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter' d — many never ; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

MEMMO. 

Alas! this 
Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
And worse suspense. 

MARINA. 

Who shall oppose me ? 

MEMMO. 

They 
Whose duty 't is to do so. 

MARINA. 

'T is their duty 
To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing ! Yet I '11 pass. 

WEMMO. 

(t is impossible. 

MARINA. 

That shall be tried. 
Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
With levell'd spears ; and think you a few jailors 
Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way; 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son. 
And they shall hear this ! 

MEMMO. 

It will only serve 
More to exasperate his judges. 

MARINA. 

What 
Are judges who give way to anger ? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

[Exit Marina. 

SENATOR. 

Poor lady ! 

MEMMO. 

'T is mere desperation ; she 
Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

SENATOR. 

And 
Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
Cut, see, the officer returns. 
[The officer passes ovet the stage with another person. 

MEMMO. 

I hardly 



Thought that « the Ten" had even this touch of pity. 
Or would permit assistance to the sufferer. 

SENj^TOR. 

Pity ! Is 't pity to recall to feeling 

The wretch too happy to escape to death 

By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 

Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 

MEMMO. 

I marvel they condemn him not at once. 

SENATOR. 

That's not their policy: they 'd have him live. 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him. 
Because all earth, except his native land, 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison. 
Consuming but not killing. 

MEMMO. 

Circumstance 
Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

SENATOR. 

None, save the letter, which he says was written, 
Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands. 
And thus he should be re-convey'd to Venice. 

MEMMO. 

But as a culprit. 

SENATOR. 

Yes, but to his country : 
And that was all he sought, so he avouches. 

MEMMO. 

The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

SENATOR. 

Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the dealh-bed confession 
Of Nicholas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of " the Ten." 

MEMMO. 

Then why not clear him ? 

SENATOR. 

Thw 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 

That Almoro Donato, as I said. 

Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 

MEMMO. 

There must be more in this strange process than 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here come two of "the Ten;" let us retire. 

[Exeunt Memmo and Senatoi , 
Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 
BARBARiGo {addressing loredano). 
That were too much : believe me, 't was not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 

LOREDANO. 

And so the Council must break up, and Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

BARBARIGO. 

No, 
That 's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's state. 

LOREDANO. 

And had he not recover'd 1 

BARBARIGO. 

To relapae 
Upon the least renewal. 



53: 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LOREDAJJO. 

'T was not tried. 

BARBARIGO. 

T is vain lo murmur ; the majority 
Jn council were against you. 

LOREBANO. 

Thanks to you, sir, 
And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 

BARBARIGO. 

I am a judge ; but must confess that part 
Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
Makes me wish 

LOREDANO. 

What? 



As I do always. 



BARBARIGO. 

That you would sometimes feel. 



LOREDANO. 

Go to, you 're a child. 
Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy ! 

BARBARIGO. 

He shed 

No tears. 

LOREDANO. 

He cried out twice. 

BARBARIGO. 

A saint had done so, 
YLviM with the crown of glory in his eye, 
At such inhuman artifice of pain 
As was forced on him : but he did not cry 
For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him, 
And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 
But wrung from pangs, and followed by no prayers. 

LOREDANO, 

He muicer'd many times between his teeth, 
But inarticula' ^1". 

BARBARIGO. 

That I heard not ; 
Vou stood more near him. 

LOREDANO. 

I did so. 

BARE»HIGO. 

Methought, 
To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy. 
And were the first to call out for assistant* 
When he was failing. 

LOREDANO. 

I believed that swoon 
His last. 

BARBARIGO, 

And have I not oft heard thee name 

His and his father's death your nearest wish? 

LOREDANO. 

It lie dies innocent, that is to say, 

VVith his guilt unavow'd, he '11 be lamented. 

BARBARIGO. 

Wha., wouldst thou slay his memory? 

LOREDANO. 

Wouldst thou have 



His state descend to his children, as it must. 
If he die unattainted ? 

BARBARIGO. 

War with them too ? 

LOREDANO. 

With all their house, till theirs or mine are nothing 

BARBARIGO. 

And the deep agony of his pale wife. 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; these moved you not ? 

\^Exit LoREDANO 

He 's silent in his hate, as Foscari 

Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved me 

More by his silence than a thousand outcries 

Could have effected. 'T was a dreadful sight 

When his distracted wife broke through into 

The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 

What we could scarcely look upon, long used 

To such sights. I must think no more of this, 

Lest I forget in this compassion for 

Our foes Iheir former injuries, and lose 

The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 

For him and me ; but mine would be content 

With lesser retribution than he thirsts for. 

And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 

To milder thoughts ; but, for the present, Foscan 

Has a short hourly respite, granted at 

The instance of the elders of the Council, 

Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 

The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they come : 

How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 

To look on them again in this extremity : 

I '11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

\Exit Barbarigo. 



ACT IT. 

SCENE L 

A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 
The Doge and a Senator. 

senator. 
Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 

DOGE. 

Now ; 
I overlook'd it yesterday : it wants 
Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 

[27ie Doge sits down and signs the paper. 
There, signor. 

SENATOR {looking at the paper). 

You have forgot ; it is not sign'd. 
doge. 
Not sign'd? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 
SENATOR {^dipping the pen into the ink, and placing th» 

paper before the Doge. 
Your hand, too, shakes, my lord : allow me, thus 

DOGE. 

'T is donei I thank you-. 





THE TWO FOSCARL 333 


SEXATOR. 


The loss of an hour's lime unto the state. 


Thus the act confirm'd 


Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 


By you and by "the Ten," gives peace to Venice. 


Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 


DOGE. 


[^Exit Senator. 


'T is long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 


[The Doge remains in silence. 


As long ere she resume her arms ! 


Enter an attendant. 


SENATOR. 




'T is almost 


ATTENDANT. 

Prince ! 


Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 


With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 


doge. 
Say on. 

ATTENDANT. 


The state had need of some repose. 


DOGE. 

No doubt : 
I found her queen of ocean, and 1 leave her 


The illustrious lady Foscari 
Requests an audience. 


Lady of Lombardy ; it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 


DOGE. j 

Bid her enter. Poor 


The gems of Brescia and Ravenna ; Crema 


Marina ! [£"^11 Attendant. 


And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 


[The DoGE remains in silence as before. 


By land has grown by thus much in my reign, 


Enter Marina. 


While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 


MARINA. 


SENATOR. 


I have ventured, father, ok 


'Tis most true, 


Your privacy. 


And merits all our countr}''s gratitude. 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


I have none from you, my child. 


Perhaps so. 


Command my time, when not commanded by 


SENATOR. 


The state 


Wliich should be made manifest. 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


I wish'd to speak to you of him. 


I have not complain'd, sir. 


DOGE. 


SENATOR. 


Your husband ? 


My good lord, forgive me. 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


And your son. 


For what? 


DOGE. 


SENATOR. 


Proceed, my iauj,hter ; 

MARINA. 


My heart bleeds for you. 


DOGE. 


I had obtain'd permission from "the Ten" 


For me, signer ? 


To attend my husband for a limited number 


SENATOR. 


Of hours. 


And for your 






DOGE. 


DOGE. 


You had so. 


Stop ! 




SENATOR. 


MARINA. 


It must have way, my lord : 


'T is revoked. 


I have too many duties towards you 


DOGE. 

By whom? 


And all your house, for present kindness. 


Not to feel deeply for your son. 

DOGE. 


MARINA. ] 

" The Ten."— When we had reach'd " the Bridge a { 


Was this 


Sighs," 


In your commission ? 

SENATOR. 


Which I prepared to pass wdth Foscari, 


The gloomy guardian of that passage first 


What, my lord ? 


Demurr'd • a messenger was sent back to 


DOGE. 


" The Ten ;" but as tlie court no longer sate, 


This prattle 


And no permission had been given in writing, 


Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd ; 


I was thrust back, with the assurance that 


Return with it to them who sent you. 


Until that high tribunal re-asserab!ed, 


SENATOR. 


The dungeon walls must still dinde us. 


I 


DOGE. 


Obey. I had m charge, too, flora the Council 


True, 


That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 


The form has been omitted in the haste 


DOGE. 


With which the court adjourned, and till it meets 


Say, when they vnW — now, even at this moment, 


'T is dubious. 


If it so please them : I am the state's servant. 


MARINA. 


SENATOR. 


Till it meets ! and when it meets 


i'hey would accord some time for your repose. 


They 'il torture him again ; and he and I 


DOGE. 


Must purchase by renewal of the rack 


--ave no repose, that is, none which shall cause 


The interview of husband and oi' wife. 


2G 





334 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The holieM tie benealli tlie heavens ? — Oh God ! 
J)ost thou see this? 

DOGE. 

Child— child 

MARINA {abruptly). 

Call r/i€ not "child!" 
fou soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
Jn circ'imstances which wc^uld call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Strech'd forth a hand to save them ? 

DOGE. 

You behold me : 
I cannot weep — ^I would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth. 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I 'd give all 
For him. 

MARINA. 

With less he surely might be saved. 

DOGE. 

That answer only shows you know not Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
They work by different means to the same end, 
And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 

MARINA. 

But they have crush'd. 

DOGE. 

Nor crush'd as yet — I live, 

MARINA. 

And your son, — how long will he live ? 

DOGE. 

I trust, 
For all that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father* The rash boy, 
With womanish impatience to return, 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter ; 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 
Nor palliate, as parent or as duke : 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

them — 
He must return. 

MARINA. 

To exile ? 

DOGE. 

I have said it 

MARINA. 

And can I not go with him ? 

DOGE. 

You well know 
This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By the assembled "Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request. 
Since aj^gravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more austere. 

MARINA. 

Austere ? Atrocious ! The old human fiends, 
With one foot in ihe grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tcarb save drops of dotage, with long white 



And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, aod heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council. 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feehngs long extinguish'd 
In their accursed bosoms. 

DOGE. 

You know not 

MARINA. 

I do — I do— ani so should you, mrthinks — 

That these are demons ; could it be else that 

Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 

Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have given 

Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 

Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above them 

In pain, in peril, or in death — who are. 

Or were at least in seeming human, could 

Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself. 

You, who abet them ? 

DOGE. 

I forgive this, for 
You know not what you say. 

MARINA. 

You know it well, 
And feel it nothing. 

DOGE. 

I have borne so much. 
That words have ceased to shake me. 

MARINA. 

Oh, no doubt ! 
You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not ; 
And, after that, what are a woman's words? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 

you. 

DOGE. 

Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell thee. 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

MARINA. 

Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 't is a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 

DOGE. 

I must bear these reproaches, though they wrong mc. 
Couldst thou but read 

MARINA. 

'Tis not upon thy brow 
Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 

DOGE {pointing downwards). 
There ! 

MARINA. 

In the earth? 

DOGE. 

To which I am tending : whet 
It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
Now, you will know mo better. 

MARINA. 

Are you, then. 
Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 

DOGE. 

Pitied ! None 
Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 335 


As far as / liave borne it, what it was 


MARINA. 


When I received it. 


Must I then retire ? 


MARINA. 


DOGE. 


But for the poor children 


Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 


Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save : 


Concerns your husband, and if not Well, signoi, 


You were the last to bear it. 


Your pleasure ! [To Loredano, entering. 


DOGE. 


LOREDANO. 


Would it were so ! 


I bear that of "the Ten." 


Better for him he never had been born, 


doge. 


Better for me.— I have seen our house dishonour'd. 


They 


MARINA. 


Have chosen well their envoy. 


That 's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier heart, 


loredano. 


More loving, or more loyal, never beat 


'T is their choice 


Within a human breast. I would not change 


Which leads me here. 


My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 


DOGE. 


Oppress'd, but not disgraced, crush'd, o'erwhelm'd, 


It does their wisuom honour, 


Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 


And no less to their courtesy.— Proceed. 


In story or in fable, with a world 


LOREDANO. 


To back his suit. Dishonour'd !—/ie dishonour'd! 


We have decided. 


I tell thee, Doge, 't is Venice is dishonour'd ; 


DOGE. 


His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 


We? 


For what he suffers, not for what he did. 


LOREDANO. 


'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 


"The Ten" in council. 


Did you but love your country like this victim, 


DOGE. 


Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 


What ! have they met again, and met without 


Submits to all things rather than to exile, 


Apprizing me ? 


You 'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 


LOREDANO. 


His grace for your enormous guilt. 


They wish'd to spare your feelings, 


DOGE. 


No less than age. 


He was 


DOGE. 


Indeed all you have said. I better bore 


That's new — when spai-ed they either? 


The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 


I thank them, notwithstanding. 


Than Jacopo's disgrace. 


LOREDANO. 


MARINA. 


You know well 


That word again? 


That they have power to act at their discretion. 


DOGE. 


With or without the presence of the Doge. 


Has he not been condemn'd ? 


DOGE. 


MARINA. 


'T is som.e years since I learn'd this, long before 


Is none but guilt so ? 

DOGE. 


I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 


You need not school me, signor : I sate in 


Time may restore his memory — I would hope so. 


That council when you vvere a young patrician. 


He was my pride, my but 't is useless now — 


LOREDANO. 


I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 


True, in my father's time ; I have heard him and 


When he was born : those drops were ominous. 


The admiral, his brother, say as much. 


MARINA. 


Your highness may remember them : they both 


I say he 's innocent : and, were he not so, 


Died suddenly. 


Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 


DOGE. 


In fatal moments ? 


And if they did so, better 


DOGE. 


So die, than live on lingeringly in pain. 


I shrank not from him : 


LOREDANO. 


But I have other duties than a father's ; 


No doubt ! yet most men like to live their days ouU 


The state would not dispense me from those duties j 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused ; 


DOGE. 

And did not they? 


Thcj must then be fulfill'd. 


LOREDANO. 

The grave knows best : they diea- 


Enter an Attendant. 


As I said, suddenly. 


ATTENDANT. 


DOGE. 


A message from 


Is that so strange, 


"The Ten." 


That you repeat the word emphatically ? 


DOGE. 


LOREDANO. 


Who bears it? 


So far from strange, that never was tnere deata 


ATTENDANT. 


In my mind half so natural as theirs. 


Noble Loredano. 


Think ycu not so ? 


DOGE. 


DOGE. 


He '—but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 


What should 1 think of mortal* - 



33G BYRON'S 


WORKS. 




LOREDANO. 


Avow'd his crime, in not denying thai 


That they have mortal foes. 


The letter to the Duke of Milan 's his), 




DOGE. 


James Foscari return to banishment. 




1 understand you ; 


And sail in the same galley which convey'd hini. 




Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 


MARINA. 




LOREDANO. 


Thank God ! At least they will not drag him more 




Yon ijest Imow if I should be so. 


Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 




DOGE. 


But think so, to m.y mind the happiest doom, 




I do. 


Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 




Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 


Desire, were to escape from such a land. 




Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also read 


DOGE. 




Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 


That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 




To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 


MARINA. 




Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 


No, 't was too human. INI ay I share his exile ' 




A fable. 


LOREDANO. 




LOREDANO. 

Who dares say so ? 


Of this " the Ten" said nothing. 

MARINA. 




DOGE. 


So I thought , 




I!— 'T is true 


That were too human, also. But it was not 




Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 


Inhibited? 




As their son e'er can be, and I no less 


LOREDANO. 




Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 


It was not named. 




I never work'd by plot in council, nor 


MARINA {to the Doge). 




Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 


Then, father, 




Of practise against life, by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 


Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To LoREDANO. 




LOREDANO. 

I fear not. 


And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 




Permitted to accompany my husband. 




DOGE. 


DOGE. 




i ou have no cause, being what I am ; but were I 


I will endeavour. 




That you would have me thought, you long ere now 


MARINA. 




\\ ere past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 


And you, signor? 




LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 




I never yet knew that a noble's life 


Lady! 




In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 


'T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 




That is, by open means. 


Of the tribunal. 




DOGE. 


MARINA. 




But I, good signor, 


Pleasure ! what a word 




Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke, 


To use for the decrees of 




In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 


DOGE. 




Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 


Daughter, know you 




Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure, 


In what a presence you pronounce these things ? 




Before or since that period, had I held you 


MARINA. 




At so much price as to require your absence. 


A prince's and his subject's. 




A word of mine had set such spirits to work 


LOREDANO. 




As would have made you nothing. But in all inings 


Subject? 




I have observed the strictest reverence ; 


MARINA. 




Nor for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 


Oh! 




(I do not speak of you but as a single 


It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 




Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 


You think, but that you are not, nor would be, 




I could enforce for my authority. 


Were he a peasant :— well, then, you 're a prince, 




Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 


A princely noble ; and what then am I ? 




I liave observed with veneration, like 


LOREDANO. 




A priest's for the high altar, even unto 


The offspring of a noble house. 




The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 


MARINA. 




Sa'ety, and all save honour, the decrees, 


And wedded 




The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 


To one as noble. What or whose, then, is 




And now, sir, to your business. 


The presence that should silence my free thoughts? 




LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 




'Tis decreed. 


The presence of your husband's judges. 




That, wjinout farther repetition of 


DOGE. 




The Question, or continuance of the trial. 


And 




Wfncl. only tends to show how stuoborn guilt is. 


The deference due even to the lightest word 




(" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 


That falls from those who rule in Venice. 




Which still prescribes the Question, till a full 


MARINA. 




CoK^essioi. dTid the prisoner {)artly having 


Keep 




1 ~— :: ■--■ '•'-' : -_J 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 



33: 



Those maxims for your mass of sec red mechanics, 

Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 

your tributaries, your dumb citizens. 

And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 

Your spies, your galley and your other slaves, 

To whom your midnight carryings-off and drownings, 

Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 

The water's level ; your mysterious meetings, 

And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 

Your '' Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, and 

Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 

The beings of another and worse world ! 

Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 

Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 

Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 

Ye treated him: — you did so, in so dealing 

With him. Then what have I to fear /rom you, 

Even if I were of fearful nature, which 

I trust I am not ? 

DOGE. 

You hear, she speaks wildly. 

MARINA. 

Wot wisely, yet not wildly. 

LOREDANO. 

Lady ! words 
Utter'd withm these walls, I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge ' have you aught in answer? 

DOGE. 

Something from 
The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

LOREDANO. 

My mission here is to the Dog e. 

DOGE. 

Then say 
The' Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
The father 

LOREDANO. 

I remember mine. — Farewell ! 
I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady. 
And bow me to the Duke. 

[Exit LOREDANO 
MARINA. 

Are you content ? 

DOGE. 

I am what you behold. 

MARINA. 

And that 's a mystery. 

DOGE. 

All things are so to mortals: who can read them 
Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody'leaves his heart and brain, 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against t"ate, 't were well 
We should remember fortune can take nought 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
The universal heritage, to battle 
2 G 2 4P 



With as we may, and least in humblest stations. 

Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 

And the original ordinance, that man 

Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 

Aloof, save fear of famine ! Ail is low. 

And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 

The prince's am no less than potter's vessel. 

Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 

Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, 

Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 

Something which is not us I — So, we are slaves, 

The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 

Upon our will ; the will itself no less 

Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 

And when we think we lead, we are most led. 

And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 

Without our act or choice, as birth ; so that 

Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world. 

And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 

Eternal. 

MARINA. 

These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

DOGE. 

And how then shall we judge each other, 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
My country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof— the chart of what 
She was and is: my reign has doubled realms; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

MARINA. 

And Foscari ? I do not think of such things, 
So I be left with him. 

DOGE. 

You shall be so ; 
Thus much they cannot well deny. 

MARINA. 

And if 
They should, I will fly with him. 

DOGE. 

That can ne'er b« 
And whither would you fly ? 

MARINA. 

I know not, reck not- 
To Syria, Eg}T)t, to the Ottoman— 
Any where, where we m.ight respire unfetter'd, 
And live, nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

DOGE. 

What, wouldst thou have a renegade for husband, 
And turn him into traitor ? 

MARINA. 

He is none : 
The country is the traitress, which thrusts forlh 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou ueem 
None rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

DOGE. 

1 cannot 
Charge me with such a breac'i of faith. 

MARINA. 

No: thou 



333 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Obserr'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco' 
A code, of mercy by comparison. 

DOGE. 

I found th(. law ; I did not make it. Were I 

A subject, still I might find parts and portions 

Fit lor amendment ; but, as prince, I never 

Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 

Left by our fathers. 

MARINA. 

Did they make it for 
The ruin of their children ? 

DOGE. 

Under such laws, Venice 
Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
Amongst us), all that history has bequeath'd 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by senates. 

MARINA. 

Rather say, 
GroanM under the stern oligarchs. 

DOGE. 

Perhaps so ; 
But yet subdued the world : in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
The policy, irrevocably tending 
To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigour. 

MARINA. 

This means that you are more a Doge than father. 

DOGE. 

It means I am more citizen than either. 
If we had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 

MARINA. 

Accuised be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 

DOGE. 

Had I as many sons 
As I have years, I would have given them all, 
Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
Tc iie state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism. 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

MARINA. 

And this is patriotism ! 
To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

DOGE. 

I'll 
So far take on myself, as order that 
Vou may be admitted. 

MARINA. 

And what shall I say 
To t oscari from his father ? 

DOGE. 

That he obey 
The ii*Wi- 



MARINA. 

And nothing more ? Will you not see him 
Ere he depart? It may be the last time. 

DOGE. 

The last !— my boy !— The last time I shall see 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

[Exeum 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 

JACOPO FOSCARI {solus). 

No light, save yon faint gleam, which shows me walls 

Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 

The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 

Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 

Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 

And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 

V\''ith some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which wears 

The marble down, had worn away the hate 

Of men's hearts : but I knew them not, and here 

Must I consume my own, which never beat 

For Venice but with such a yearning as 

The dove has for her distant nest, when wheelmg 

High in the air on her return to greet 

Her callow brood. What letters are these which 

[Approaching the wall. 
Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall? 
Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah ! the names 
Of my sad predecesscrs in this place, 
The dates of theii despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great for many. This stone page 
Holds like an epitaph their history, 
And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
I recognise some names familiar to me, 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 
Fittest for such a chronicle as tnis. 
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 

[He engraves his nar/iB 

Enter a Familiar of " the Ten.''^ 

FAMILIA.R. 

I bring you food. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I pray you set it down ; 
I am past hunger: but my lips are parch'd — 
The water ! 

FAMILIAR. 

There. 
JACOPO FOSCARI {after drinhing). 
I thank you : I am better. 

FAMILIAR. 

I am commanded to inform you that 
Your furtlier trial is postponed. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Till when ? 

FAMILIAR 

I know not. — ^It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



33'^ 



JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ah ! they relent then — I had ceased to hope it : 
'T WAS time. 

Eriter Marina. 

MARINA. 

My best beloved ! 
JACOPO FOSCARI {embracing her). 
My true wife, 
And only friend ! What happiness ! 

MARINA. 

We '11 part 

No more. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

How ! wouldst thou share a dungeon ? 

MARINA. 

Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 

But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 

Be ignorant of each other : yet I will 

Share that — all things except new separation ; 

It is too much to have survived the first. 

How dost thou ? How are those worn limbs ? Alas ! 

Why do I ask? Thy paleness 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

'T is the joy 
Of seemg thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale too, my Manna ! 

MARINA. 

'Tis 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 

Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 

Of the famihar's torch, which seems akin 

To darkness more than light, by lending to 

The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke, 

Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes — 

No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sparkle ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And thine ! — but I am blinded by the torch. 

MARINA. 

As I had been without it. Couldst thou see here? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Nothing at first ; but use and time had taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices, made by the winds, 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers. 
Save those of Venice : but a moment ere 
Thou earnest hither, I was busy writing. 

MARINA. 

What? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My name : look, 't is there — recorded next 
The name of him who here preceded me. 
If dungeon dates say true. 

MARINA. 

And what of him ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

These walls are silent of men's ends ; they only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
Or those who soon must be so. — What of him 7 
Thou askest What of me? may soon be ask'd, 



With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise- 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 

MARINA. 

/ Rpeak of thee ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And wherefore not? All then shall speak of me: 

The tyranny of silence is not lasting. 

And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 

Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 

I do not doubt my memory, but my life : 

And neither do I fear. 

MARINA. 

Thy life is safe. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And liberty? 

MARINA. 

The mind should make its own. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That has a noble sound ; but 't is a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient: 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than deuth 
(If death be a deep sleep), without a groan. 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 't is not all, for there are things 
More woful — such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

MARINA. 

Alas ! and this 
Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

JACOPO FOSCAjSI. 

That thought would scarcely aid me to endure it. 
My doom is common, many are in dungeons, 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace. 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day ; for, save the jailor's torch, 
And a strange fire-fly, which was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
For I have such, and shown it before men; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 

MARINA. 

I will be with thee. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ah ! if it were so ! 
But that they never gi anted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
Which they term annals, history, what you wall, 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me ; so these walls have been my study, 
More laithful pictures of Venetian story. 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 

MARINA. 

I come to tell thee the result of thoir 
Last council on thy doom. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I know it — look - 



3A0 



BYRON S WORKS. 



I He Tri-.'-i to h\A li-rr^t. a« referring to the 
tor'tii-cs uhi-h '.» '\2d undergoTU. 

MARINA. 

»lo— no— no more of thai: evai thej rdent 
FVcm that atrocity. 

JACOrO FOSCAKI. 

What then ? 

MARIJCA. 

That joa 

Rerj^m to Candia. 

JACOPO rOSCARI. 

Then my list hope 's gone. 
I c :•,:!: er.iure my dungeon, for *t was Venice ; 
I c; j'.i support xhe torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd mj spirits up, 
like a sliip on the ocean tossed by storms, 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar. 
In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives. 
And unbdievNS, like a stranded wreck. 
My very soul seemM mouldning in my bosom. 
And piecemeal I diall perish, if remanded. 

IftARIXA. 

AndAere? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

At «ice — by better means, as briefer. 
What ! would they evoi deny roe my sires' sepulchre, 
As wfd! as home atod heritage ? 

MAaiKA. 

My husband! 
I have sued to acoompany thee hence. 
And not so hopdes^. Tlus luve of thine 
For an ungraldiil and ^rrannic s<m1. 
Is pasaon, and not patriotbm ; for me. 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect. 
And the swe^ freedom of the earth aiui air, 
I would not cavil about dimes or regimis. 
Thb crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 

JACOPO F05CAKI. 

Wefl I know how wretched ! 

MARIITA. 

And TCt you see bow frcmi theu* banKhment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Tlieir antique eno'gy of mind, all that 
Remained of Rome for their inheritance. 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; 
And ^lall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Had I gone ibrth 
From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seddng 
Another regicm, with their Oocks and herds ; 
Had I be«i cast out like the Jews frcnn ZiMi, 
Or like our fathers, driven by AttiSa 
From fertile Italy to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country, 
And many thouofats ; but afterwards addre^d 
Blysd^ with those about roe, to create 
A new home and fresh stale : perhaps I could 
Ha^e borne this — thoush I know not. 

MARIXA. 

^Vherefi)re not ? 

I: ••'■ ie the lot 0! miliicns, ar)J must be 
The faie of mriiids more. 



JACOPO FOSCAP.I. 

Ay — we but hear 
Of the survivorsi' Irol in their new lands, 
Hieir numbers and success ; but who can i 
The hearts which broke m silence of that parting. 
Or after their departure ; of that malady * 
Which calls up green and native 6e]ds to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
Tb the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely be restrained from treading than? 
Tliat melody,* which out of tones and tunes, 
CoDects such pasture for the bnging sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when fkr away 
From his sik>w canopy of diife and douds. 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thooghl, 
And dies. Tou call this tcetJmesx ! It is strength, 
I say, — the parent of all honest feding. 
He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 

MARIXA. 

Obey her, then ; *t is she that puts thee forth. 

JACOrO FOSCARI. 

Ay, there it is ; 't is hke a mother's curse 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
The e&iles you speak of went forth by nations. 
Their hands upheld each other by the way. 
Their tents xr^re pitched together — ^I 'm al«ie. 

MARIS A. 

You shall be so no more — 1 wiH go with thee. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My best Marina ! — and oiu- children ? 

MARINA. 

They 
I fear, by the prevaation of the state's 
Abhorroit poB<7 (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be brdien at her pleasure). 
Will not be suffer'd to jwoceed wiih us. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And canSL diou leave them ? 

MARINA. 

Yes. With many a pan* 
But — I can leave them, dtildren as they are. 
To teach you to be less a child. Fr<Mn this 
Learn you to swav your fe^'linffs, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 't is our first 
On earth to bear. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Have I not borne ? 



Too 

From tprannots injustice, and OHNigh 
To teach you not to shrmk now fixm a lot 
Which, as compared with what you have imdergane 
Of late, is mat:y. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ah ! you never yet 
Were for away fitwo Venice, never saw 
Her beautifiil towers in the receding dbtance. 
While every finrow of the vessel's track 
Seem'd ploushing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmhr with its gold and crimson gkiry. 
And after dreamins; a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 



1 Hie calenture. 

3 Alfaiding to die Swies air. and ic tSsctm 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 



341 



MARTNA.. 

I wi 1 divide this with you. Let us think 
Of cur departure from this much-loved city 
(Since you must love it, as it seenis), and this 
Chamber of state her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncl-es : we must sail ere night. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That 's sudden. Shall I not behold my father ? 

MARINA. 

You will. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Where? 

MARINA. 

Here or in the ducal chamber — 
He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Blame him not. 
I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from "the Ten," and upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

MARINA. 

Accumulated ! 
^hat pangs are those they have spared you ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

That of leaving 
Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now. as 't was 
Upon my former exile. 

MARINA. 

That is true, 
And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd. 
Unjust, and 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Curse it not. If I am silent, 
Who dares accuse my country ? 

MARINA. 

Men and angels ! 
The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects. 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say 
Aught in its favour, who would praise like tfiee ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Let us address us then, since so it must be. 
To our departure. Who comes here ? 

Enter LoredanjO, attended by Familiars. 
LOREDANO {to the Familiars). 

Retire, 
But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

IMost welcome, noble signer. 

I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 

Such presence hither. 

LOREDANO, 

'Tis not the first time 
i nave visited these places. 



MARINA. 

Nor would be 
The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

LOREDANO. 

Neither are of my office, nobie lady! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce "the Ten's" decree. 

MARINA. 

That tenderness 
Has been anticipated : it is known. 

LOREDANO. 

As how? 

MARINA. 

I have inform'd him, not so gently. 
Doubtless, as your nice, feelings would prescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he knew if 
If you come for our thanks, take ihem, and henct ' 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I pray you, calm you : 
What can avail such words ? 

MARINA. 

To let him know 
That he is known. 

LOREDANO. 

Let the fair dame preserve 
Her sex's privilege. 

MARINA. 

I have some sons, sir, 
Will one day thank you better. 

LOREDANO. 

You do well 
To nurse tliem wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Return to Candia! 

LOREDANO. 

True— 
For life. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Not long. 

LOREDANO. 

I said — for life. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And! 
Repeat — not long. 

LOREDANO. 

A year's imprisonment 
In Canea— afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Both the same to me : the aftw 
Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is 't true my wife accompanies me ? 

LOREDVNO. 

Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

MARINA. 

Who obtain'd that justice f 

LOREDANO. 

One who wars not with women. 





312 BYRON'S WORKS. 


SIARINA. 


LOREDANO. 


But oppresses 


Let her go on ; it irks not me. 


Men : howsoever, let him have my thanks 


MARINA. 


For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 


That's false! 


From him or such as he is. 


You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 


LOREDANO. 


Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 


He receives them 


To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 


As they are offer'd. 


And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the \\reck 


MARINA. 


Which you have made a prince's son — my nusband ; 


May they thrive with him 


In short, to trample on the fallen— an office 


So much !— no more. 


The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him ! 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


How have you sped ? We are wTetched, signor, as 


Is this, sir, your whole mission ? 


Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us — 


Because we have brief time for preparation, 


And how/eeZ you ? 


And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 


LOREDANO. 


Tliis lady, of a house noble as yours. 


As rocks. 


MARINA. 


MARINA. 


Nobler! 


By thunder blasted: 


LOREDANO. 


They feel not, out no less are shiver'd. Come, 


How nobler ? 


Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 


MARINA. 


The sole fit habitant of such a cell. 


As more generous ! 


Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 


We say the " generous steed" to express the purity 


Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 


Of his high blood. Thus much I 've learnt, although 
Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze), 


Enter the Doge. 


From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My father! 

DOGE {embrdcing him). 
Jacopo ! my son — my son ! 


Of Eg\T)t, and her neighbour Araby: 

And why not say as soon " the generous man ?" 

If race be aught, it is in qualities 


More than in years ; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product ; nay — 
Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


My father still ! How long it is since I 
Have heard thee name my name— owr name ! 


Upon your genealogic trees most green 


DOGE. 

My boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 


Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 


Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater ! 


I rarely, sir, have murraur'd. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


DOGE. 


Agam, Marina ! 


I feel too much thou hast not. 


MARINA. 


MARINA. 


Again ! still, Marina. 


Doge, look there ! 


See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 


[She points to Loredano 


With a last look upon our misery ? 


DOGE. 


Let him partake it I 


I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


MARINA. 


That were difficult. 


Caution! 




LOREDANO. 


MARINA. 

Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 


Being 
The virtue which this noble lady most 


Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 


May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 


And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 


MARINA. 


A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 


Wretch ! 't is no virtue, but the policy 


No less than master : I have probed his soul 


Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 


A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long. 


As such I recommend it, as I would 


Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me ! 


To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 


With death, and chains, and exile in his hand, 


DOGE. 


To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit : 


Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 


TTiey are his weapons, not his armour, for 


Bjiown Loredano. 


i h-WH pierceo him to the core of his cold heart. 


LOREDANO. 


1 rare not for his frowns ! We can but die, 


You may know him better. 


^,nd he out Qve, for him the very worst 


MARINA. 


• 'f destinies : each day secures him more 


Yes ; worse he could not. 


Mi? ternpter's. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


JACOPO FOSCARI. 


Father, let not these 


This is mere insanity. 


Our parting hours be lost in listening to 


MARINA. 


Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it. 


■ I may De so , and who nath made us mad 7 


[ndeed, our last of meetings ? 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



34.1 



DOGE. 

You behold 
These white hairs ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And I feel, besides, that mine 
Will never be so white. Embrace me, father! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children — to your last child's children : 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 

MARIXA. 

No — not here. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

rhey might behold their parent any where. 

MARINA. 

I would that they beheld their father in 

A place which would not mmgle fear with love, 

To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 

They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 

Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well 

I know his fate may one day be their heritage. 

But let it only be their heritage, 

And not their present fee. Their senses, though 

Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 

And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 

Which floats above the place where we now stand — 

A cell so far below the water's level. 

Sending its pestilence through every crevice. 

Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere, 

However you — and you — and, most of all, 

As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 

May breathe it without prejudice. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I had not 
Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
1 shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 

DOGE. 

Not so : they shall await you in my chamber. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And must I leave them all ? 

LOREDANO. 

You must. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Not one? 

LOREDANO. 

They are the state's. 

, MARINA. 

^.^ I thought they had been mine. 

LOREDANO. 

They are, in all maternal things. 

MARINA. 

That is, 
In all things painful. If they 're sick, they will 
Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
To me to bury and to mourn : but if 
They live, they '11 make you soldiers, senators. 
Slaves, exiles — what you will ; or if they are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles ! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

LOREDANO. 

The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

How know you that here, where the genial vdnd 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom? 



LOREDANO. 

'T was so 
When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

DOGE. 

Be firm, my son ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I will do my endeavour. 

MARINA. 

Farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon, 
And him to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

LOREDANO. 

And present 
Liberation. 

DOGE. 

He speaks truth. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

No doubt: but 'tis 
Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change thenv 
But I reproach not. 

LOREDANO. 

The time narrows, signer 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Alas ! I httle thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes hke this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell, 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

DOGE. 

Boy! no leais 

MARINA. 

Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 

To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 

They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 

And I will find an hour to wipe away 

Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 

But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 

Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

LOREDANO {to the Familiar). 

The torch, theie 

MARINA. 

Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
With Loredano mourning hke an heir. 

DOGE. 

My son, you are feeble : take this hand. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Alas ; 
Must youth support itself on age, and I, 
Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 

LOREDANO. 

Take nuns. 

MARINA. 

Touch it not, Foscari ; 't will sting you. Signor, 
Stand ofl^! be sure that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plungeu 
No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you . 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

{ExeuTu^ 



344 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


ACT IV. 


By our united influence in the council. 


It must be done with ali the deference 


SCENE I. 


Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 


A HaU in the Ducal Palace. 


LOREDANO. 




As much of ceremony as you will. 


Enter Lcredano and Barbarigo. 


So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 


BARBARIGO. 


I care, depute the council on their knees 


And have you confidence in such a project? 


(Like Barbarossa to the Pope) to beg him 


LOREDANO. 


To have the courtesy to abdicate. 


I have. 


BARBARIGO. 


BARBARIGO. 


What, if he will not? 


'T is hard upon his years. 


LOREDANO. 


LCREDANO. 


We '11 elect another, 


Say rather 


And make him null. 


Kind, to relieve him from the cares of state. 


BARBj»RIGO. 


BARBARIGO. 


But will the laws uphold us? 


1 will hreak his heart. 


LOREDANO. 


I-OREDANO. 


What laws?— "The Ten" are laws; and if they were nd, 


Age has no heart to break. 


I will be legislator in this business. 


He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 


BARBARIGO. 


A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 


At your own peril ? 


Swerved. 


LOREDANO. 


BARBARIGO. 


There is none, I tell you, 
Our powers are such. 


In his countenance, I grant you, never ; 


But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 


BARBARIGO. 


So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 


But he has twice already 


H:id nought to envy him within. Where is he ? 


Sohcited permission to retire, 


LOREDANO. 


And twice it was refusea. 


Ill his own portion of the palace, with 


LOREDANO. 


His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 


The better reason 


BARBARIGO. 


To grant it the third time. 


Bidding farewell. 


BARBARIGO. 


LOREDANO. 


Unask'd? 


A last. As soon he shall 


LOREDANO. 


Bid to his dukedom. 


It shows 


BARBARIGO. 


The impression of his former instances : 


When embarks the son ? 


If they were from his heart, he may be thankful ; 


LOREDANO. 


If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 


Forthwith— when this long leave is taken. 'T is 


Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 


Time to admonish tnem again. 


And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 


BARBARIGO. 


I have prepared such arguments as will not 


Forbear ; 


Fail to move them, and remove him : since 


Retrench not from their moments. 


Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, don* 


LOREDANO. 


You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 


Not I, now 


And all will prosper. 


We have higher business for our own. This day 


BARBARIGO. 


Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 


Could I but be certain 


As the firs' of his son's last banishment — 


Tliis is no prelude to such persecution 


And that is vengeance. 


Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 


BARBARIGO. 


I would support you. 


In my mirtd, too deep. 


LOREDANO. 


LOREDANO. 


He is safe, I tell you ; 


'TIS moderate — not even Ufe for life, the rule 


His fourscore years and five may linger on 


Denounced of retribution from all time : 


As long as he can drag them : 't is his throne 


Thev owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 


Alone is aim'd at. 


BARBARIGO. 


BARBARIGO. 


yia not the Doge deny this strongly ? 


But discarded pnnces 


LOREDANO. 


Are seldom long of life. 


Doubtless. 


LOREDANO. 


BARBARIGO. 


And men of eighty 


A nd (lid not this shake your suspicion? 


More seldom still. 


LOREDANO. 


BARBARIGO. 


No. 


And why not wait these few y&ut • 


BARBARIGO. 


LOREDANO. 


*tot u this decosition should take place 


Because we have waited long enough, and he 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



346 



f -ivud longer than enough. Hence ! In to council ! 

[Exeunt Loredano and Barbakigo. 
Enter Memmo and a Senator. 

SENATOR. 

A summons to " the Ten!" Why so? 

MEMMO. 

"The Ten" 
Alone can answer ; they are rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are summon'd — 
That is enough. 

SENATOR. 

For them, but not for us ; 
I would know why. 

MEMMO. 

You will know why anon, 
[f you obey ; and, if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obey'd. 

SENATOR. 

I mean not 
To oppose them, but — 

MEMMO. 

In Venice " But " 's a traitor. 
But me no " buts," unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

SENATOR. 

I am silent. 

MEMMO. 

Why 
Thus hesitate ?—» The Ten" have call'd m aid 
Of their deliberation five- and- twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one. 
And I another ; and it seems to me 
Both honour'd by the choice or chance which leads us 
To mingle with a body so august. 

SENATOR. 

iMost true. I say no more. 

MEMMO. 

As we hope, signor. 
And all may honestly (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may), one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates a school of wisdom, to 
Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysteries. 

SENATOR. 

Let us view them ; they, 
No doubt, are worth it. 

MEMMO. 

Beuig worth our lives 
If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least, to you or me. 

SENATOR. 

I sought not 
A place withm the sanctuary ; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

MEMMO. 

Let us not 
Br latest in obe}Tng " the Ten's " summons. 

SENATOR. 

All are not met, but I am of your thought 
So far — let 's in. 

MEMMO. 

The earUest are most welcome 
2H 49 



In earnest councils — ^we will not be least so. 

[Exeunt 

Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Ah, father ! though I must and udll depart. 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time as beacon to my heart. 
With any penalty annex'd they please. 
But let me still return. 

DOGE. 

Son Jacopo, 
Go and obey our country's a^tII, 't is not 
For us to look beyond. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

But still I must 
Look back. I pray you think of me. 

DOGE. 

Alas . 
You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
The exile of the disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 
And their desponding shades came flitting round 
To impede tlie act, I must no less obey 
A duty paramount to every duty. 

MARINA. 

My husband ! let us on : this but prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

But we are not sunmion'd yet : 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows? 
The wind may change. 

MARINA. 

And if it do, it v^nll not 
Change their hearts, or your lot ; the galley's oars 
Will quickly clear the harbour. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Oh, ye elements ! 
Where are your storms ? 

MARINA. 

In human breasts. Alas ' 
Will nothing calm you. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Never yet did mariner 
Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 
And pleasant breezes, as 1 call upon you, 
Y'^ tutelar saints of my o\\t\ city ! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt 
The land I love, and never shall see more ! 

MARINO. 

And vsdsh you this with me beside you ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

No— 

No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! May'st tno" 
Live long to be a mother to those children 
Thy fond fideUty for a lime deprives 
Of such support ! But for mytelf aione. 



346 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



."May all the winds of heaven howl doAvn the gulf, 

And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 

Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me, 

As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 

Cast me out from amongst them, as an offering 

To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 

^Vill be more merciful than man, and bear me, 

Dead, but still bear me to a native grave. 

From fisher's hands upon the desolate strand. 

Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 

One lacerated like the heart which then 

Will be But wherefore breaks it not? why live I ? 

MARINA. 

To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 

Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 

A sufferer, but not a loud one : why. 

What is this to the thmgs thou hast borne in aence — 

Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

B juble. 
Triple, and tenfoid torture ! B > yot. are right. 
It must be borne. Father, yc <r ^lessing. 

DOGk. 

Would 
It could avail thee ! but no le.^ thou hast it. 

JACOPO FOJCARI. 

3 >rgive 

DOGE. 

What! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

My poor mother for my birth 
And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you), for the gift of life. 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 

MARINA. 

What hast thou done ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Nothing. I cannot charge 
jNIy memory with much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A Uke hereafter. 

MARINA. 

Fear not : that 's reserved 
Por your oppressors. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Let me hope not. 

MARINA. 

Hope not ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I ccnnot wish them all they have inflicted. 

MARINA. 

All ! the consummate fiends ! A thousand fold ! 
May the worm which ne'er dieth feed upon them ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Tli^.y may recent. 

MARINA. 

And if they do. Heaven will not 
Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and Chiards. 

OFFICER. 

SigTior ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
Is rising — we are ready ♦^o attend you. 



JACOPO FOSCARI. 

And I to be attended. Once more, father. 
Your hand ! 

DOGE. 

Take it. Alas ! how thine own treT.bles ' 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

No— you mistake ; 'tis yours that ahak'xj, my fath^. 
Farewell ! 

BGGE, 

Fare rell ! Is there aught else ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

No — nothing. 
[To the Officer. 
T.wD'-' -ne your arm, good signer. 

OFFICER. 

Yon turn pale — 
Let me support you — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
Some water ! 

MARINA. 

Ah, he is dying ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Now, I 'm ready — 
My eyes swim strangely — where 's the door ? 

MARINA. 

Away , 
Let me support him — my best love ! Oh God ! 
How faintly beets this heart — this pulse ! 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Thehght! 
Is it the light ? — I am faint. 

[Officer presents him with wate 

OFFICER. 

He vidll be better, 
Perhaps, in the air. 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

I doubt not. Fatner — wife — 
Your hands ! 

MARINA. 

There 's death in that damp clammy grasu. 
Oh God ! — My Foscari, how fare you ? 

JACOPO FOSCARI. 

Well ! 

[He dies. 



He 's gone. 



OFFICER. 
DOGE. 



He 's free. 

MARINA. 

No — no, he is not dead ; 
There must be life yet in that heart — ^he could not 
Thus leave me. 

DOGE. 

Daughter I 

MARINA. 

Hold thy peace, old man ' 
I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh Foscari ! 

OFFICER. 

We must remove the body. 

MARINA. 

Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! your base office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder. 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honour them. 

OFFICER. 

I ma* 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 



34' 



tnform the signory. and learn their pleasure. 

DOGE. 

Inform the signory from we, the Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes : 
While he hved, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy ! 

[Exit Officer. 

MARINA. 

And I must live ! 

DOGE. 

Your children live, Marina. 

MARINA. 

My children ! true — they Uve, and I must live 
To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so ! 

DOGE. 

My unhappy children ! 

MARINA. 

What! 
You feel it then at last — you ! — ^Where is now 
The stoic of the state ? 

DOGE {throwing himself doum by the body). 
Here! 

MARINA. 

Ay, weep on ! 
1 thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

LOREDANO. 

What's here? 

MARINA. 

Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead ! Avaunt ! 
Incarnate Lucifer ! 'tis holy ground. 
A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 

BARBARIGO. 

Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 

But pass'd here merely on ovir path from council. 

MARINA. 

Pass on. 

tOREDANO. 

We sought the Doge. 
MARINA {pointing to the Doge, who is still on the ground 
by his son's body). 

He 's busy, look, 
About the business you provided for him. 
Are ye content ? 

BARBARIGO. 

We wiU not interrupt 
A parent's sorrows. 

MARINA. 

No, y'e only make them, 
Then leave them. 

DOGE {rising). 
Sirs, I am ready. 

BARBARIGO. 

No— not now. 

LOREDANO. 

/et 'twas important. 

DOGE. 

If 't was so, I can 

Onl> (eneat — I am ready. 



BARBARIGO. 

It shall not be 
Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

DOGE. 

I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him thou look'st on there : 
If they be good, say on ; you need not fear 
That they can comfort me. 

BARBARIGO. 

I would they could ! 

DOGE. 

I spoke Viui to yoM, but to Loredano. 
He understands me. 

MARINA. 

Ah ! I thought it v.'ovdd be so. 

DOGE. 

What mean you ? 

MARINA. 

Lo ! there is the blood beginning 
To flow through the dead hps of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

[7b Loredano. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 

doge. 
My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. ] To his attendants]. Signers, if 

it please you. 
Within an hour I '11 hear you. 

[Exeunt Doge, Marina, and attendants^ unth 
the body.] 

Manent Loredano and Barbarigo 

BARBARIGO. 

He must not 
Be troubled now. 

LOREDANO. 

He said himself that nought 
Could give him trouble farther. 

BARBARIGO. 

These are words ; 
But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

LOREDANO. 

Sorrow preys upon 
Its Solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

BARBARIGO. 

And therefore 
You would deprive this old man of all business ? 

LOREDANO. 

The thing 's decreed. The Giimta and " the Ten ' 
Have made it law : who shall oppose that law ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Humeuiity ! 

LOREDANO. 

Because his son is dead ? 

BARBARIGO. 

And yet unburied. 

LOREDANO. 

Had we knovm ihis wnen 
The act was passing, it might have suspendeo 
Its passage, but impedes it not— onca oast. 



343 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



EARBARIGO. 

I '11 not consent. 

LOREDANO. 

You have consented to 
All that 's essential — leave the rest to me. 

EARBARIGO. 

VVhy press his abdication now? 

LOREDANO. 

The feelings 
Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

EARBARIGO. 

You have a son. 

LOREBANO. 

I have — and had a father. 

EARBARIGO. 

Still so inexorable ? 

I,OREDANO. 

Still. 

EARBARIGO. 

But let him 
Inter his son before m'e press upon him 
This edict. 

LOREDANO. 

Let him call up into life 
My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Kven aged men, be, or appear to be, 
Sires of ^s hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal : he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

EARBARIGO. 

And art thou sure 
He dealt in such ? 

LOREDANO. 

Most sure. 

EARBARIGO. 

And yet he seems 
All openness. 

LOREDANO. 

And so he seem'd not long 
Ago to Carmagnuola. 

EARBARIGO. 

The attainted 
And foreign traitor ? 

LOREDANO. 

Even so : when he^ 
After the very night in which " the Ten" 
i.Jom'd v/ith the Doge) decided his destruction. 
Met the great Duke at day-break with a jest. 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
" The CTood day or good night?" his Doge-ship answer'd, 
»* That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil. 
In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
There often has been question about you."' 
'T was true ; the question was the death resolved 
'k){ Cannagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 



1 A historical fact. 



And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled on him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long months beforehand- 
Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead ; so are young Foscari and his brethren — 
I never smiled on them. 

EARBARIGO. 

Was Carmagnuola 
Your friend ? 

LOREDANO. 

He was the safeguard of the city. 
In early life its foe, but, in his manhood. 
Its saviour first, then victim. 

EARBARIGO. 

Ah ! that seems 
The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to her sway. 

LOREDANO. 

The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 

To him who took a city ; and they gave 

A crown to him who saved a citizen 

In battle • the rewards are equal. Now, 

If we should measure forth the cities taken 

By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 

Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 

Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 

To private havoc, such as between him 

And my dead father. 

EARBARIGO. 

Are you then thus fix'd ? 

LOREDANO. 

Why, what should change me ? 

EARBARIGO. 

That which changes me 
But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accompUsh'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
His sons are dead, his family depress'd, 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep ? 

LOREDANO. 

More soundly. 

EARBARIGO. 

That 's an error, and you '11 find it 
Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

LOREDANO. 

They sleep not 
In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance 

EARBARIGO. 

Fancy's distemperature ! There is no passion 
More spectral or fantastical than hate ; 
Not even its opposite, love, so peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 
Enter an Officer. 

LOREDANO. 

Where go you, sirrah ? 

OFFICER. 

By the ducal order 
To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interatient. 

BAHBARIGO. 

Their 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



Ad 



Vault has been often open'd oT late years. 

LOREDANO. 

T will be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 

OFFICER. 

May I pass on? 

LOREDANO. 

You may. 

BARBARIGO. 

How bears the Doge 
This last calamity? 

OFFICER. 

With desperate firmness. 
In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move now and then ; 
And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — " My son !" 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. 

[Eant Officer. 

BARBARIGO. 

This stroke 
Will move all Venice in his favour. 

LOREDANO. 

Right ! 
We must be speedy : let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The Council's resolution. 

BARBARIGO. 

I protest 
Against it at this moment. 

LOREDANO. 

As you please — 
I '11 taKe their voices on it ne'ertheless, 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
[Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

TJie D G e' s Apartment. 
The Doge and Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will malte it theirs. 

doge. 
To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 

[Exit Attendant. 

AN OFFICER. 

Prince ! I have done your bidding. 

DOGE. 

What command ? 

OFFICER. 

A melanchoV one — to call the attendance 
Of 

DOGE. 

True — true — true ; I crave your pardon, I 

Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old — old almost as my years, 
rill no^v I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me 

[Enter the Deputation, consisting ofstrofthe Signory, 
and the Chief of the Ten.] 
Noble men, your pleasure ! 
2 H 2 



CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

In the first place, the Council doth condole 
With the Doge, on his late and private grief. 

DOGE. 

No more — no more of that. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Will not the Duke 
Accept the homage of respect ? 

DOGE. 

I do 
Accept it as 't is ^ven — proceed. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

" The Ten," 
With a selected giunta from the senate 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Having deliberated on the state 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence. 
Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this). 
The resignation of the ducal ring. 
Which you have worn so long and venerably ; 
And, to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 

DOGE. 

Did I hear rightly ? 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Need I say again ? 

DOGE. 

No. — Have you done ? 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

I have spoken. Tweni)' .'cui 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 

DOGE. 

I shall not need so many seconds. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

We 

WiQ now retire. 

DOGE. 

Stay ! Four and twenty hours 
Will alter nothing which I have to say. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Speak ! 

DOGE. 

When I twice before reiterated 
My wish to abdicate, it was refused me ; 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions which 
My country call'd me here to exercise, 
According to my honour and my conscience- 
I cannot break my oath. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN 

Reduce us not 
To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

DOGE. 

Providence 
Prolongs my days, to prove and chasten me ) 
But ye have no right to reproach mv length 



350 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 

I am ready to lay (^own my Ufe for her, 

As I have laid down dearer things than life ; 

But for my dignity — I hoid it of 

The whole republic ; when the general will 

Is manifest, then you shall be answer'd. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

We grieve for such an answer ; but it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

DOGE. 

I can submit to all things, 
But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

With this, then, must we 
Return to those who sent us ? 

DOGE. 

You have heard me. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

With all due reverence we retire. 

[Exeunt the Deputation, etc. 

Enter an Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

My lord, 
The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 



My time is hers. 



Enter Marina. 



MARINA. 

My lord, if I intrude — 
Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 

DOGE. 

Alone! 
Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we vnil bear it. 

MARINA. 

We will ; and for the sake of those who are, 
Endeavour Oh my husband ! 

DOGE. 

Give it way ! 
1 cannot comfort thee. 

MARINA. 

He might have lived, 
So form'd for gentle privacy of Ufe, 
So loving, so beloved, the native of 
Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
As my poor Foscari ? Nothmg was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine, save not 
T« be Venetian. 

DOGE. 

Or a prince's son. 

MARINA. 

Yes ; all things which conduce to other men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition. 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The country and the people whom he loved. 
The prince of whom he was the elder bom, 
\rd 

DOGE. 

Soon may be a prip?>i no longer. 

MARINA. 

How, 

DOGE. 

'Tiey have taken my son from me, and now aim 



At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws ! 

MARINA. 

Oh the tyrants ! 
In such an hour too ! 

DOGE. 

'T is the fittest time : 
An hour ago I should have felt it. 

MARINA. 

And 
Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 
But he, who, had he been enough protected. 
Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
Cannot assist his father. 

DOGE. 

Nor should do so 
Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

MARINA. 

They tortured from him. This 
May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
I have seen him pass through such an ordeal, as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is goiie, 
And I, who would have given my blood for him, 
Have nought to give but tears ! But could I compass 
The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, well ; 
I have sons who shall be men. 

DOGE. 

Your grief distracts you 

MARINA. 

I thought I could have borne it, when I saw him 
Bow'd dovm by such oppression ; yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolcng'd captivity : — I am punish'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 

DOGE. 

I must look on him once more. 

MARINA. 

Come with me ! 

DOGE. 

Is he 

MARINA. 

Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

DOGE. 

And he is in his shroud ? 

MARINA. 

Come, come, old man ' 
[Exeunt the Doge and Mari> i 

Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

BARBARIGO {to an ATTENDANT). 

Where is the Doge ? 

ATTENDANT. 

This instant retired hence 
With the illustrious lady, his son's widow. 

LOREDANO. 

Where? 

ATTENDANT. 

To the chamber where the body lies. 

BARBARIGO. 

Let us return then. 

rOREDANO. 

You Target, you cannot. 
We have the implicit order of the giunta 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



351 



To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they '11 be here soon after us. 

BARBARIGO. 

And will they press their answer on the Doge? 

LOREDANO. 

'T was his own wish that all should be done promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd ; 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for — what would he more ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Die in his robes. 
He could not have lived long ; but I have done 
My best to save his honours, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel me hither ? 

LOREDANO. 

'T was fit that some one of such different thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

BARBARIGO. 

And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 

Of humblmg me for my vain opposition. 

you are ingenious, Loredano, in 

Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 

A very 0\ad in the art of hating ; 

'T is thus (although a secondary object, 

Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 

I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 

This undesired association in 

Your giunta's duties. 

liOREDANO. 

How ! — my giunta ! 

BARBARIGO. 

Yours ! 
They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yours 7 

LOREDANO. 

You talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear not 
This from you. 

BARBARIGO. 

Oh ! they '11 hear as much one day 
From louder tongues than mine : they have gone beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power ; and when 
This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

LOREDANO. 

You talk but idly. 

BARBARIGO. 

That remains for proof. 
Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

, Is the Duke aware 
We seek his presence ? 

ATTENDANT. 

He shall be inform'd. 

[Exit Attendant. 

BARBARIGO. 

The Duke is with his son. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

If it be so, 
We will remit him till the rites are over. 
[vt;t U3 return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 



LOREDANO {oside to Barbarigo). 
Now the rich man's hell-fire upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I 'U have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage signers 
I pray ye be not hasty. \ Aloud to the others 

BARBARIGO. 

But be human ! 

LOREDANO. 

See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the Doge. 

DOGE. 

I have obey'd your summons. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

We come once more to urge our past request. 

DOGE. 

And I to answer. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

What? 

DOGE. 

My only answer. 
You have heard it. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Hear you then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

DOGE. 

To the point — 
To the point ! I know of old the forms of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

You are no longer Doge ; you are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your ovra private fortune. 

DOGE. 

That last clause, 
I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Your answer, Duke ? 

LOREDANO. 

Your answer, Francis Foscari t 

DOGE. 

If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the repubUc never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful as to place 
His own high dignity before his country ; 
But this life having been so many years 
IVot useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being render'd, I obe> . 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

If you would have the three days named extended, 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

DOGE. 

Not eight hour?, signer. 
Nor even eight minutes. — There 's the ducal :in£, 

[Taking off his ring ariu, scafi 
And there the ducal diadp.m. And so 
The Adriatic's tree to wed another. 



352 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

y ct go not forth so quickly. 

DOGE. 

I am old, sir, 
And even to move but slowly must begin 
'J'o move beiimes. Methinks I see amongst you 
A face I know not — Senator ! your name, 
V'ou, by your garb. Chief of the Forty. 

MEMMO. 

Signer, 
I am the son of Marco Memmo. 

DOGE. 

Ah! 
Your father was my friend. — But sons and fathers ! 
What, ho ! rny servants there ! 

ATTENDANT. 

My prince ! 

DOGE. 

No prince — 
There are the princes of the prince ! 

[Pointing to the Te?i's Deputation. 
Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Why 
So rashly ? 't will give scandal. 

DOGE. 

Answer that ; 

[To the Ten. 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves ; 

[To the Servants. 
There is one burthen which I beg you bear 
With care, although 't is past all further harm — 
But I will look to that myself. 

BARBARIGO. 

He means 
The body of his son. 

DOGE. 

And call Marina, 
My daughter ! 

Enter Marina. 

DOGE. 

Get thee ready ; we must mourn 
Elsewhere. 

MARINA. 

And every where. 

DOGE. 

True ; but in freedom. 
Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signers, you may depart : what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I 'm very old, 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
1 fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
'I'he Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Su:;l) power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provok^^d by such 
As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signers ! 
Maj r.he next duke be better than the present ' 

LOREDANO. 

Thp. p-'fiseni .i-oke i? Pascd Malipiero. 



DOGE. 

Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 

LOREDANO. 

Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

DOGE. 

Earth and heaven! 
Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er hear- 
Such sound for his successor ! Happier he. 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

LOREDANO. 

WTiat J 
Do you regret a traitor ? 

Donr. 
No — I merely 
Envy the dead. 

CHIEF OF TH5 TEN. 

My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By tlie private staircase, which conduct? you to^rti' h 
The landing-p'ace of the canal. 

DOGE. 

No. I 
Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty — the Giant's Stairs, on whose 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have call'd me up those steps. 
The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
There five and thii'ty years ago was I 
Install'd, and traversed these same halls from whicj 
I never thought to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 
But, come; my son and I will go together — 
He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

What, thus m public ? 

DOGE. 

I was publicly 
Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou wilhng ? 

MARINA. 

Here 's my arm ! 

DOGE. 

And here my stqf: thus propp'd will I go forth. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

It must not be— the people will perceive it. 

DOGE. 

The people ! — There 's no people, you well know it. 

Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 

There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 

May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse y^xi, 

Save with their hearts and eyes. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

You speak in passion, 
Else 

DOGE. 

You have reason. I have spi^ken iruch 
More than my wont ; it is a foibl« which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 



363 



Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs. 

BAREARIGO. 

You shall not depart without 
An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due respect, 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say, 
My brethren, will we not ? 

DIFFERENT VOICES. 

Ay!— Ay! 

DOGE. 

You shall not 
Stir — m my train, at least. I enter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals ; but as citizen, 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults. 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more. 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — I am none ! — That 's false, 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 

LOREDANO. 

Hark! 
[The great bell of Saint Mark's tolls. 

BARBARIGO. 

The bell! 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Saint Mark's, which tolls for the election 
Of Malipiero. 

DOGE. 

Well I recognise 
The sound ! I heard it once, but once before. 
And that is five and thirty years ago ; 
Even then I was not young. 

BARBARIGO. 

Sit down, my lord ! 
You tremble. 

DOGE. 

'T is the knell of my poor boy ! 
My heart aches bitterly. 

BARBARIGO. 

I pray you sit. 

DOGE. 

No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 
Marina! let us go. 

MARINA. 

Most readily. 
DOGE [walks a few steps, then stops). 
I feel a thirst — will no one bring me here 
A cup of water ? 

BARBARIGO. 

I 

MARINA. 

And I 



LOREDANO. 



And 



[The Doge takes a gobletfrom the hand o/Loredano. 

DOGE. 

I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
Most fit for such an hour as this. 

LOREDANO. 

Why SO ? 

DOGE. 

T is said that our Venetian crystal has 
Such pure antipatny to poisons, as 
To burst if aught of venom touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
50 



LOREDANO. 

Well, sir ! 

DOGE. 

Then it is false, or you are true. 
For my own part, I credit neither ; 'tis 
An idle legend. 

MARINA. 

You talk wildly, and 
Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband 

BARBARIGO. 

Hesinks! — support him! — quick — a chair — support him' 

DOGE. 

The bell tolls on ! — let 's hence — my brain 's on fii"e • 

BARBARIGO. 

I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 

DOGE. 

No! 
A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
Off with your arms ! — That bell ! 

[T/jeDoGE drops down, and dies. 

MARINA. 

My God! my God { 

BARBARIGO {tO LoREDANO). 

Behold ! your work 's completed ! 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Is there then 
No aid ? Call in assistance ! 

ATTENDANT. 

'Tis all over. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

If it be so, at least his obsequies 

Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 

His rank and his devotion to the duties 

Of the realm, while his age permitted him 

To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 

Say, shall it not be so ? 

BARBARIGO. 

He has not had 
The misery to die a subject where 
He reign'd : then let his funeral rites be princely. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

We are agreed, then ? 

All, except Loredano, answer. 
Yes. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Heaven's peace be with hin; 

MARINA. 

Signers, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yet it had a soul 
(A soul by whom you have increased your empire. 
And made your power as proud as was his glory) 
You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place with such relentless coldness : 
And now, when he can neither know these honours. 
Nor would accept them if he could, you, signers, 
Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp, 
To make a pageant over what you trampied. 
A princely funeral will be your reproach. 
And not his honour. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Lady, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

MARINA. 

I know It, 



354 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As far as touches torturing the hving. 

[ thought the dead had been beyond even 3/0M, 

Though (some,no doubt), consign'd to powers whichmay 

Rese<n';le that you exercise on earth. 

Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 

His dregs of hfe, which you have kindly shorten'd : 

It is my last of duties, and may prove 

A dreary comfort in my desolation. 

Grief is fantastical, and loves thu dead, 

And the apparel of the grave. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Do you 

Pretend still to this ofRce ? 

MARINA. 

I do, signor. 
Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
And those of [She stops with agitation. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

Best retain it for your children. 

MARINA. 

Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Sliall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, but simply as a senatcH-. 

MARINA. 

I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 

Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until this hour, 

Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 

O'er those they slew. I 've heard of widows' tears — 

Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks to you ! 

I 've heard of heirs in sables — you have left none 

To the deceased, so you would act the part 

Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one day, 

I trust, Heaven's wiU be done too ! 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

KJiow you, lady, 
To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech? 

MARINA. 

I know the former better than yourselves ; 
The latter — like yourselves ; and can face both. 
Wish you more funerals ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Heed not her rash words ! 
Her circumstances must excuse her bearmg. 

CHIEF OF THE TEN. 

W e will not note them down. 

B A KB ARiGO {turning to Lored and, who is miting upon 
his tablets). 

What art thou writing, 
With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 

LOREDANo {pointing to the Doge's body). 
Tliat he has paid me !' 

chief of the ten. 

What debt did he owe you ? 
loredano. 
A long and just one ; nature's debt and mine. 

[Curtain foEs . 

I " TJ'ha vagata." A historicEU- faC"- See the History of 
^'ciiicp by P Hara page 411, vol ii. 



APPENDIX. 



Extrait de VHistoire de la Ripuhhque de Venise, pat 
P. Dam, de P Academie francaise. Tom. 2. 

Depuis trente ans, la republique n'avait pas deposd 
les armes. Elle avait acquis les provinces de Brescia, 
de Bergame, de Creme, et la principaute de Ravenne. 

Mais ces guerres continuelles faisaient beaucoup de 
mallieureux et de mecontents. Le doge Francois Fos- 
cari, a qui on ne pouvait pardonner d'en avoir ete le pro- 
moteur, manifesta une seconde fois, en 1442, et probable 
ment avec plus de sincerite que la premiere, I'intention 
d'abdiquer sa dignite. Le conseil s'y refusa encore. On 
avait exige de lui le serment de ne plus quitter le dogat. 
II etait deja avance dans la vie'illesse, conservant cepen- 
dant beaucoup de force de tete et de caractere, et jouis- 
sant de la gloire d'avoir vu la republique etendre au loin 
les limites de ses domaines pendant son administration. 

Au milieu de ces prosperites, de grands chagrins vin- 
rent mettre a I'epreuve la fermete de son ame. 

Son fiis, Jacques Foscari,fut accuse, en 1445, d'avoir 
recu des presents de quelques prmces ou seigneurs etran- 
gers, notamment, disait-on, du due de MUan, Philippe 
Visconti. C 'etait non seulement une bassesse, raais une 
infraction des lois positives de la republique. 

Le conseil des dix traita cette affaire comrae s'il se fut 
agi d'un delit commis par un particulier obscur. L'ao- 
cuse fiit amene devant ses juges, devant le doge, qui ne 
crut pas pouvoir s'abstenir de presider le tribunal. LcV, 
il fut interroge, applique a la question,' declare coupable, 
et il entendit, de la bouche de son pfere, I'arret qui le 
condamnait a un banissement perpetuel, et le releguait 
a Naples de Romanic, pour y finir ses jours. 

Embarque sur une galere pour se rendre au heu de son 
exil, il tomba malade a Trieste. Les sohcitations du 
doge obtinrent, non sans difEculte, qu'on lui assignat une 
autre residence. Enfin le conseil des dix lui permit de 
se retirer a Trevise, en lui imposant I'obUgation d'y res- 
ter sous peine de mort, et de se presenter tous les jours 
devant le gouverneur. 

II y etait depuis cinq ans,lorsqu'un des chefs du conseil 
des dix fut assassine. Les soupcons se porterent sur lui : 
un de ses domestiques qu'on avait vu a Venise futarrete 
et subit la torture. Les bourreaux ne purent lui arracher 
aucun aveu. Ce terrible tribunal se fit amener le maitro, 
le soumit aux memes epreuves ; il resista a tous les tour- 
ments, ne cessant d'attester son innocence ;^ mais on ne 



1 E datasli la corda per avere da lui la veritk; chiamato il 
consiglio de' dieci colla giunta, nel quale fiu messer lo doge, fu 
sentenziato. — (Marin Sanuto Vite de' Duchi, F. Foscari.) 

2 E fu tormentato ne niai confessb cosa alcuna, pure parve 
al consiglio de' dieci di confinarlo in vita alia Canea. (Ibid.) 
Voici le texte du jugement : " Cum Jacobus Foscari per oc- 
casionem percussionis et mortis Hermolai Donati fuitretentua 
et examinatus, et propter significaiiones, testificationes, et 
scripturas quae habentur contra eum, clare apparet ipsum esse 
reum criminisprsedicti, sed propter incantationes, et verba qua3 
sibi reperta sunt, de quibus existit indicia manifesta, videtur 
propter obst inatam mentem suam, non esse possiblle extrahere 
ab ipso illam veritatem, quae clara est per scripturas et pet 
testificationes, quoniam in fune aliquam nee vocem, nee geni 
turn, sed solum intra dentes voces ipse videtur et auditur infra 
se loqui, etc. . . . Tamen non est standum in istis terminis, 
propter honorem status nostri et pro multis respectibus, prae- 
sertim quod regimen nostrum occupatur in hac re et quia iii 
terdictum est amplius progredere : vadit pars quod dictus Ja- 
cobus Foscari, propter ea quae habentur de illo, mittatur in 
confinium in civitate Caneae," etc. Notice sur le proccs da 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



3o 



vit dans cette Constance que de I'obstination ; de ce 
qu'il taisait le fait, on conclut que ce fait existait : on 
attribua sa fermete a la magie, et on le relegua k la 
Canee. De cette terre lointaine, le banni, digne alors 
de quelque pitie, ne cessait d'ecrire a son pere, a ses 
amis, pour obtenir quelque adoucissement a sa depor- 
tation. N'obtenant rien, et sachant que la terreur qu'in- 
spirait le conseil des dix ne lui permettait pas d'esperer 
de trouver dans Venise une seule voLx qui s'elevat en 
sa faveur, il fit une lettre pour le nouveau due de MUan, 
par laquelle, au nora des bons offices que Sforce avait 
recus du chef de la republique, il implorait son inter- 
vention en faveur d'un innocent, du fils du doge. 

Cette lettre, selon quelques historiens, fut confiee h 
un marchand qui avait promis de la faire parvenir au 
due, mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il y avait a craindre 
en se rendant I'intermediaire d'une pareille correspon- 
dance, se hata, en debarquant k Venise, de la remettre 
au chef du tribunal. Une autre version, qui parait plus 
sure, rapporte que la lettre fiit surprise par un espion, 
attache aux pas de I'exile. ' 

Ce fut un nouveau delit dont on eut a punir Jacques 
Foscari. Reclamer la protection d'un prince etranger 
etait un crime, dans un sujet de la republique. Une ga- 
lere partit sur-le-champ pour I'amener dans les prisons 
de Venise. A son arrivee, U fut soumis a I'estrapade.^ 
C 'etait une singuli^re destinee pour le citoyen d'une re- 
publique et pour le fils d'un prince, d'etre trois fois dans 
sa vie applique a la question. Cette fois la torture etait 
d'autant plus odieuse, qu'elle n'avait point d'objet, le 
'ait qu'on avait a lui reprocher etant incontestable. 

Quand on demanda a I'accuse, dans les intervalles que 
les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi U avait ecrit la 
lettre qu'on lui produisait, il repondit que c'etait precise- 
ment parcequ'U ne doutait pas qu'elle ne tombat entre 
les mains du tribunal, que toute autre voie lui avait ete 
fermee pour faire parvenir ses re'clamations, qu'il s'at- 
tendait bien qu'on le ferait amener a Venise, mais qu'il 
avait tout risque pour avoir la consolation de voir sa 
femme, son pere, et sa mere, encore une fois. 

Sur cette naive declaration, on confirma sa sentence 
d'exil ; mais on I'aggrava, en y ajoutant qu'il serait re- 
tenu en prison pendant un an. Cette rigueur, dont on 
usait envers un maJhevireux etait sans doute odieuse ; 
mais cette politique, qui defendait a tous les citoyens de 
faire intervenir les etrangers dans les afiaires interieures 
de la i<;publique, etait sage. Elle etait chez eux une 
maxime de gouvemement et une maxime inflexible. 
L'historien Paul Morosini' a conte que I'empereur 
Frederic III. pendant qu'il etait I'hote des Venitiens, de- 
manda comme une faveur particuliere,radmissiond'un 
citoyen dans le grand conseil, et la grace d'un ancien 
gouvemeur de Candie, gendre du doge, et banni pour 
sa mauvaise administration, sans pouvoir obtenir ni 
['une ni I'autre. 

Cependant on ne put refuser au condamne la permis- 
sion de voir sa femme, ses enfants, ses parents, qu'il 
allait quitter pour toujoure. Cette dernifere entrevue 



V Jocciues Foscari, dans un volume intitule, Raccolta di mem- 
oriq storiclie e annpdote, per formar la Storia dell' eccellen- 
tissimo consiglio di X, dalla sua prima instituzione sino a' 
giorni noslri, con !e diverse variazioni e riforme nelle varie 
epoche successe. (Archives de Venise.) 

1 La notice citee ci-dessus qui rapporte les actes de cette 
procedure. 

2 Ebbp prima per sapere la veritk trenta squussi di corda. 
Marin tfanuto, Vite de' Duchi. F. Foscari.) 

3 Historia di Venezia, lib. 23. 



meme fut accompagnee de cruaute, par la severe cir- 
conspection, qui retenait les epanchements de la douleui 
patemelle etconjugale. Ce ne fut point dans I'interieiv 
de leur appartement, ce fut dans vme des grandes salles 
du palais, qu'une femme, accompagnee de ses quatre 
fils, vint faii-e les derniers adieux a son mari, qu'un pere 
octogenaire et la dogaresse accablee d'infirmites, jouir- 
ent un moment de la triste consolation de meler leurs 
larmes a celles de leur exile. II se jeta a leurs genoux, 
en leur tendant des mains disloquees par la torture, pour 
les supplier de soUiciter quelque adoucissement a la 
sentence qui venait d'etre prononcee centre lui. Son 
pere eut le courage de lui repondre : " Non, mon fils, 
respectez votre arret, et obeissez sans murmm-e k la 
seigneurie." ^ A ces mots il se separa de I'infortime, 
qui fiit sur-le-champ embarque pour Candie. 

L'antiquite vit avec autant d'horreur que d'admiration 
un pere condamnant ses fils evidemment coupables. 
Elle hesita pour qucdifier de vertu sublime ou de ferocite 
cet effort qui parait au-dessus de la natui-e humaine •,^ 
mais ici, oii la premiere fauten' etait qu'une faiblesse, oil 
la seconde n'etait pas prouvee, ou la troisi^me n'avait 
rien de criminel, comment concevoir la Constance d'un 
pere, qui voit torturer trois fois son fils unique, qui Pen- 
tend condamner sans preuves, et qui n'eclate pas en 
plaintes ; qui ne I'aborde que pom- lui montrer im visage 
plus austere qu'attendri, et qui, au moment de s'en se- 
parer pour jamais, lui interdit les mmnnures et jusqu'a 
I'esperance ? Comment expliquer une si cruelle circon- 
spection, si ce n'est en avouant, a notre honte, que la 
tyrannie peut obtenir de I'espece humaine les mSmes 
efforts que la vertu ? La servitude aurait-elle son he- 
roTsme comme la liberte ? 

Quelque temps apres ce jugement, on decouvrit le ve- 
ritable auteur de I'assassinat, dont Jacques Foscari por- 
tait la peine ; mais il n'etait plus temps de reparer cette 
atroce injustice, le mallieureux etait mort dans sa prison. 
II me reste a raconter la suite des malheurs du pere. 
L'histoire les attribue a I'impatience qu'avaient ses 
ennemis et ses rivaux de voir vaquer sa place. Elle 
accuse formellcment Jacques Loredan, Pun des chefs 
du conseil des dLx, de s'etre livre centre ce vieiUard aux 
conseils d'une haine hereditaire et qui depuis long-temps 
di\dsait leurs maisons.^ 

Francois Foscari avait essaye de la faire cesser, en 
offrant sa fille a Pillustre amiral Pierre Loredan, pour un 
de ses fils. L'aUiance avait ete rejetee, et Pinimitie des 



1 Rlarin Sanuto, dans sa chronique, Vite de' Duchi, se sert 
ici, sans en avoir eu I'intention, d'une expression assez ener- 
ffique: "II doge era vecchio in decrcpita eta e camminava 
con una mazzetta. E quando gli andb parlogli molto con- 
stantemente che parea che non fosse suo figliiilo, licet fosse 
figliulo unico, e Jacopo disse, ' messer padre, vi prego cho 
procuriate per me, acciocche io torni a casa mia.' fl doge 
disse : ' Jacopo, va e obbedisei a quello che vuole la terra, e 
non cercar piu oltre.' " 

2 Cela fut un acte que Ton ne scaiiroit ny suffissaminer.t 
louer, ny assez blasmer: car, ou c'estoit une excellence de 
vertu, qui rendoit ainsi son cceur impassible, ou une violence 
de passion qui le rendoit insensible, dont ne I'une ne I'autre 
n'est chose petite, ainsi surpassant I'ordinaire d'humaine na 
ture, et tenant ou ae la divinite ou de la bestialite. jlais il est 
plus raisonnable que le jugement des hommes s'accordo a sa 
gloire, que la faiblesse des jugeans fasse descroire sa \erru 
Mais pour lors quand il se fut retire, tout le monde demoura 
sur la place, con.me transy d'horreur et de irayeur, par un 
long temps sans mot dire, po\ir avoir veu ce qui avoitiite fait. 
(Plutarque, Valerius Publicola.) 

3 Je suis principalement dans ce recit une relation mann 
scrite de la deposition de Francois Foscari qui est dans 1b 
volume intitul6 : Raccolta di m'emorie storiche e annedote 
per formar la Storia dell' eccellentissimo consiglio di f 
(Archives de Venise.,' 



356 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



deux htmilles s'cn etait accrue. Dans tous les conseils, 
dans toutes les affaires, le doge trouvait toujours les 
Loredan prets fi combattre ses propositions ou ses in- 
terfits. II lui echappa un jour de dire qu'il ne se croi- 
rait reellement prince que lorsque Pierre Loredan au- 
rait cesse de vivre. Get amiral mourut quelque temps 
apr^s d'une incommodite assez prompie qu'on ne put 
expliquer. II n'en fallut pas davantage aux malveillants 
pour insinuer que Fran9ois Foscari, ayant desire cette 
niort, pouvait bien I'avoir hatee. 

Ces bruits s'accrediterent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
perir subitement Marc Loredan, frere de Pierre, et cela 
dans le moment oil, en sa qualite d'avogador, il instrui- 
sait un proces contre Andre Donato, gendre du doge, 
accuse de peculat. On ecrivit sur la tombe de I'amiral 
qu'il avait ete enleve a la patrie par le poison. 

II n'y avait aucune preuve, aucun indice contre Fran- 
cois Foscari, aucune raison meme de le soupconner. 
Quand savie entiere n'aurait pas dementi une imputa- 
tion aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang ne lui promet- 
tait ni I'impunite ni meme I'indulgence. La mort tra- 
gique de I'un de ses predecesseurs I'en avertissait, et 
d n'avait que trop d'exemples doniestiques du soin que 
le ccnseil des dix prenait d'humilier le chef de la re- 
publique. 

Cependant, Jacques Loredan, fils de Pierre, croyait ou 
feignait de croire avoir a venger les pertes de sa famille. ' 
Dans ses livres de comptes (car il faisait le commerce, 
comme a cette epoque presque tous les patriciens), il 
avait inscrit de sa propre main le doge au nombre de ses 
debiteurs, pour la mort, y etait- il dit, de mon pere et de 
mon oncle.2 De I'autre cote du registre, il avait laisse 
une page en blanc, pour y faire mention du recouvre- 
ment de cette dette, et en effet, apres la perte du doge, il 
ecrivit sur son registre : il me I'a payee, Pha pagata. 

Jacques Loredan fut elu membre du conseil des dix, 
en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien de profi- 
ter de cette occasion pour accomplir la vengeance qu'il 
meditait. 

Le doge, en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il venait 
de subir, pendant le proces de son fils, s'etait retire au 
fond de son palais : incapable de se hvrer aux affaires, 
consume de chagrins, accable de vieillesse, il ne se mon- 
trait plus en public, ni meme dans les conseils. Cette 
••etraite, si facile a expliquer dans un vieillard octoge- 
naire si malheureux, deplut aux decemvirs, qui voulu- 
rent y voir un murmure contre leurs arrets. 

Loredan commenca par se plaindre devant ses col- 
ognes du tort que les infirmites du doge, son absence 
des conseils, apportaient a I'expedition des affaires ; il 
finit par hasarder et reussit a faire agreer la proposition 
de le deposer. Ce n'etait pas la premiere fois que Ven- 
ise avait pour prince un homme dans la caducite : I'u- 
sa^e ct les lois y avaient pourvu : dans ces circonstan- 
ces le doge etait supplee par le plus ancien du conseil. 
Ici, cela ne suffisait pas aux ennemis de Foscari. Pour 
Jonner plus de solennite a la deliberation, le conseil des 
dix demanda une adjonction de vingt-cinq senateurs ; 
mais comme on n'en enongait pas I'objet, et que le grand 
conseil etait loi^n de le soupconner, il se trouva que Marc 
Foscari, frere du doge, leur fut donne pour I'un des ad- 
)<)\nts. Au lieu de I'admettre a la deliberation, ou de 



1 Hasce tamen injurias Quamvis imaginarias non tam ad 
sniitiurn revocaverat .Jacobus Lautedanus defunctorum r,c- 
iiiis ciuam in abecedariuin vindictam opportuna. (Palazzi 
Fa.s'i (iucales.) 

5i Ibiil et I'Histoire V^nitienne de Vianolo. 



reclamer contre ce choix, on enferma ce senateur dans 
une chambre separee, et on lui fit jurer de ne jamais 
parler de cette exclusion qu'il eprouvait, en lui decla- 
rant qu'il y allait de sa vie ; ce qui n'empecha pas qu'on 
inscrivit son nom au bas du decret, comme s'il y eut 
pris part.' 

Quand on en vint a la deliberation, Loredan la provo- 
qua en ces termes.^ " Si I'utilite publique doit imposer 
silence h tous les interets prives, je ne doute pas que 
nous ne prenions aujourd'hui une mesure que la patrie 
reclame, que nous lui devons. Les etats ne peuvent 
se maintenir dans un ordre de choses immuable : vous 
n'avez qu'a voir comme le notre est change, et combien 
il le serait davantage s'il n'y avait une autorite assez 
ferme pour y porter remede. J'ai honte de vous faire 
remarquer la confusion qui regne dans les conseils, le 
desordre des deliberations, I'encombrement des affaires, 
et la legerete avec laquelle les plus importantes sonl 
decidees ; la licence de notre jeunesse, le peu d'assi- 
duite des magistrats, I'introduction de nouveautes dan- 
gereuses. Quel est 1' effet de ces desordres ? de com- 
promettre notre consideration. Quelle en est la cause ? 
I'absence d'un chef capable de moderer les uns, de di- 
nger les autres, de donner I'exemple a tous, et de main- 
tenir la force des lois. 

" Ou est le temps ou nos decrets etaient aussitot ex- 
ecutes' que rendus? oil Francois Carrare se trouvait 
investi dans Padoue, avant de pouvoir etre seulement 
informe que nous voulions lui faire la guerre ? Nous 
avons vu tout le contraire dans la derniere guerre con- 
tre le due de Milan. Mallieureuse la republique qu. 
est sans chef! 

" Je ne vous rappelle pas tous ces inconvenients et 
leurs suites deplorables, pour vous affliger, pour vous 
effrayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir que vous etes 
les maitres, les conservateurs de cet etat fonde par vos 
peres, et de la liberte que nous devons a leurs travaux 
a leurs institutions. Ici, le mal indique le remede. 
Nous n'avons point de chef, il nous en faut un. Notre 
prince est notre ouvrage, nous avons done le droit de 
ji'ger son merite quand il s'agit de I'elire, et son inca- 
pacite quand elle se manifeste. J'ajouterai que le 
peuple, encore bien qu'il n'ait pas le droit de pronon- 
cer sur les actions de ses maitres, apprendra ce chan- 
gement avec transport. C'est la Providence, je n'en 
doute pas, qui lui inspire elle-meme ces dispositions, 
pour vous avertir que la repubhque reclame cette reso- 
lution, et que le sort de I'etat est en vos mains," 

Ce discours n'eprouva que de timides contradictions ; 
cependant, la deliberation dura huit jours. L'assemblee, 
ne se jugeant pas aussi sure de I'approbation univer- 
selle que I'orateur voulait le lui faire croire, desirait que 
le doge donnat lui-meme sa demission. II I'avait deja 
proposee deux fois, et on n'avait pas voulu 1' accepter. 

Aucune loi ne portait que le prince fut revocable : il 
etait au contraire a vie, et les exemples qu'on pouvait 
citer de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaient que de 
telles revolutions avaient toujours ete le resultat d'un 
mouvement populaire. 

Mais d'allleurs, si le doge pouvait etre depose, ce n'etait 
pas assurementpar un tribunal compose d'un petit nom- 
bre de membres, institue pour punir les crimes, et nulle- 



1 Tl faut copondant remaKjuer que dans la notice ou I'on 
r^.contfi ce fail, la deliberation est rsppoitee, que les vingt- 
cinq adjoints y sent nommes, et que le nom de Marc Foscari 
ne s'y trouve pas. 

2 Cette harangue se lit dans la Hv 'ice Cit^eci-Jessus 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



357 



ment invest! du droit de revoquer ce que le corps souve- 
rain de I'etat avait fait. 

Cependant !e tribunal arreta que les six conseillers de 
la seigneurie, et les chefs du conseil des dix, se trans- 
porteraient aupres du doge, pour lui signifier que I'ex 
cellentissime conseil avait juge conveiiable qu'il abdiquat 
ime dignite dont son age ne lui permettait plus de rem- 
plir les fonctions. On lui donna 1500 iacats d'or pour 
son entretien, et vingt-quatre heures pour se decider. 

Foscari repondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup de gra- 
vite, que deux fois il avai* voulu se demettre de sa charge 
qu'au lieu de le lui permettre, on avait exige de lui le 
serment de ne plus reiterer cette demande ; que la Pro- 
vidence avait prolonge ses jours pour I'eprouver et pour 
I'afHiger ; que cependant on n'etait pas en droit de re^ 
procher sa longue vie a un homme qui avait employe 
quatre-vingt-quatre ans au service de la repubhque: 
qu'il etait pret encore h, lui sacrifier sa vie ; mais que 
pour sa dignite, il la tenait de la republique enti&re, et 
qu'il se reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, quand la 
volonte generale se serait legalement manifestee. 

Le lendemain, a I'heure indiquee, les conseillers et les 
chefs des dix se presenterent. II ne voulut pas leur don- 
ner d'autre reponse. Le conseil s'assembla sur-le- 
champ, lui envoya demander encore une fois sa resolu- 
tion, seance tenante, et, la reponse ayant ete la memo, 
on prononoa que le doge etait releve de son serment et 
dej)ose de sa dignite : on lui assigna une pension de 
1500 ducats d'or, en lui enjoignant de sortir du palais 
dans huit jours, sous peine de voir tous ses biens con- 
fisques.^ 

Le lendemain, ce decret fut porte au doge, et qe fut 
Jacques Loredan qui eut la crueUe joie de le lui presen- 
ter. II repondit : " Si j'avais pu prevoir que ma vieil- 
le.sse fut prejudicia.ble a I'etat, le chef de la republique 
ne se serait pas montre assez ingrat, pour preferer sa 
dignite a la patrie ; mais cette vie lui ayant ete utile 
pendant tant d'annees, je voulais lui en consacrer jus- 
qu'au dernier moment. Le decret est rendu, je m'y 
conformerai." Apres avoir parle ainsi, il se depouilla 
des marques de sa dignite, remit Tanneau ducal qui fut 
brise en sa presence, et dSs le jour suivant il quitta ce pa- 
lais, qu'il avait habite pendant trente-cinq ans, accom- 
pagne de son frere, de ses parents, et de ses amis. Un 
secretaire, qui se trouva sur le perron, I'invita k des- 
cendre par un escalier derobe, afin d'eviter la foule du 
peuple, qui s'etait rassemble dans les cours, mais il s'y 
refusa, disant qu'il voulait descendre par ou il etait 
monte ; et quand il fut au bas de I'escalier des geants, il 
se retourna, appuye sur sa bequille, vers le palais, en 
proferant ces paroles: " Mes services m'y avaient ap- 
pele, la malice de mes ennemis m'en fait sortir." 

La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avait 
peut-etre desire sa mort, etait, emue de respect et d'at- 
tendrissement.' Rentre'dans sa maison, il recommanda 
ci sa famille d'oublier les injures de ses ennemis. Per- 
sonne dans les divers corps de I'etat ne se crut en droit 
fle s'etonner, qu'un prince inamovible eut ete depose sans 
qu'on lui reprochat rien ; que I'etat eut perdu son chef, 
h l'ins\i du senat, et du corps souverain lui-meme. Le 
peuple seul laissa echapper quelques regrets : une pro- 

1 Ce decret est rapport^ textuellement dans la notice, 
'i La notice rapporte aussi ce d6cret. 
3 On lit dans la notice ces propre mots ; " Se fosse state in 
vro potere volentieri lo avrebbero restituito " 
31 



clamation du conseil des dix prescrivit le silence le plua 
absolu sur cette affaire, sous peine de mort. 

Avant de donner un successeur a Frangois Foscan^ 
une nouvelle loi fut rendue, qui defendait au doge 
d'ouvrir etde lire, autrement qu'en presence de ses con- 
seillers, les depeches des ambassadeurs de la repub- 
hque, et les lettres des princes etrangers.' 

Les electeurs entr^rent au conclave, et nommerent au 
dogat Paschal Malipier, le 30 octobre 1457. La cloche 
de Saint-Marc, qui annongait a Venise son nouveau 
prince, vint frapper I'oreille de Franqois Foscari ; cette 
fois sa fermete I'abandonna, il eprouva im tel saisisse- 
ment, qu'il mourut le lendemain. ^ 

La republique arreta qu'on lui rendrait les memes hon- 
neurs funebres que s'il fut mort dans I'exercice de sa 
dignite ; mais lorsqu'on se presenta pour enlever ses 
restes, sa veuve, qui de son nom etait Marme Nani, de- 
clara qu'elle ne le souffrirait point ; qu'on ne devait pas 
traiter en prince apr^s sa mort celui que vivant on avait 
depouille de la couronne, et que, puisqu'il avait consume 
ses biens au service de I'etat, elle saurait consacrer sa 
dot a lui faire rendre les derniers honneurs.^ On ne tint 
aucun compte de cette resistance, et malgre les protes- 
tations de I'ancienne dogaresse, le corps fut enleve, re- 
vetu des ornemens ducaux, expose en public, et les ob- 
seques furent celebrees avec la pompe accoutumee. Le 
nouveau doge assista au convoi en robe de senateur. 

La pitie qu'avait inspiree le malheur de ce vieillard, 
ne fut pas toui-a-fait sterile. Un an apr^s, on osa dire 
que le conseil des dix avait outrepasse ses pouvoirs, et 
il lui fut defendu par une loi du grand conseil de s'in- 
gerer a I'avenir de juger le piince, a moins que ce ne 
fut pour cause de felonie.'* 

Un acte d'autorite tel que la deposition d'un doge in- 
amovible de sa nature, auroit pu exciter un souleve- 
ment general, ou au moins occasioner une division 
dans une repubhque autrement constituee que Venise. 
Mais de puis trois ans, il existait dans celle^-ci une 
magistrature, ou plutot une autorite, devant laqueUe 
tout devait se taire. 



Extrait de VHistoire des Republiques Italiennes du moyen 
age, par J. C. L. Simonde de Sismondi, torn. x. 
Le doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce traite une 
guerre non moins dangereuse que celle qu'il avait ter- 
mmee presque en meme temps par le traite de Lodi, 
etait alors parvenu \ une extreme vieillesse. Francois 
Fosoari occupait cette premiere dignite de I'etat des le 
15 avril 1423. Quoiqu'il fiit deja age de plus de cin- 
quante-un ans a I'epoque de son election, il etait cepen- 
dant le plus jeune des quarante-un electeurs. II avait 
eu beaucoup de peine a parvenir au rang qu'il convoi- 
tait, et son election avait ete conduite avec beaucoup 
d'adresse. Pendant plusieurs tours de scrutin ses amis 
les plus zeles s'etaient abstenus de lui donner leur suf- 
frage, pour que les autres ne le considerassent pas comnie 
un concurrent redoutable. ' Le conseil des dix craignait 
son credit parmi la noblesse pauvrc, narcequ'il avait 
cherche a se la rendre favorable, tandis qu'il etait pro 
curateur de Saint-Marc, en faisant emjiloyer plus de 
trente mille ducats h doter des jeunes filles de bonne 



1 Hist, dl Venilia, di Paolo Morosini. lib. '23 

2 Hist, di Pietro Justiniani, lib. 8. 

3 Hist. d'Egnatio, lib. 6. cap. 7. 

4 Ce decret est du 25 Octobre, 1458. La notice le rapoorte, 

5 Marin Sanuto, Vite de' Duchi di Veneyia, p. 967 



358 



BYRONS WORKS. 



On 



maison, ou h etablir des jeunes gcntilshonimes 
craijrnait encore sa nombreuse famille, car alors il etait 
j.ere de quatre enfar.s, et marie de nouveau ; enfin on 
redoutait son ambition et son gout pour la guerre. L'opi- 
nion que ses advcrsaires s'etaient formee de lui fut veri- 
fiee par les evenemens ; pendant trente-quatre ans que ; 
Foscari fut a la tete de la republique, elle ne cessa point j 
de combat.re. Si les hostilites etaient suspendues du- j 
rant quelques mois, c'etait pour recommencer bientot 
avec plus de vigueur. Ce fut I'epoque ou Venise etendit 
son empire sur Brescia, Bergame, Ravenne, et Creme, 
ou elle fonda sa dommation de L#ombardie, et parut 
sans cesse siu- le point d'asservir toute cette province. 
Profond, courageux, inebranlable, Foscari communiqua 
aux conseils son propre caract^re, et ses talens lui firent 
obtenir plus d'influence sur la republique, que n'avaient 
exerce la plupart de ses predecesseurs. INIais si son am- 
bition avait eu pour but I'agrandissement de sa famille, 
elle fiit cruellement trompee : trois de ses fils moururent 
dans les huit annees qui suivirent son election : le qua- 
trieme, Jacob, par lequel la maison Foscari s'est per- 
petuee, fut \-ictime de la jalousie du conseil des dix, et 
empoisonna par ses malheurs les jours de son pere.* 

Eu effet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de. defiance 
envers le chef de I'etat, lorsqu'il le voyait plus fort par 
ses talens et sa popularite, veillait sans cesse sur Fos- 
cari, pour le punir de son credit et de sa gloire. Au 
mois de fevrier 1445, INIichel Bevilacqua, Florentin, 
exile a Venise, accusa en secret Jacques Foscari aupres 
des inquisiteurs d'etat, d'avoir reou du due Philippe 
Visconti, des presens d'argent et de joyaux, par les 
mains des gens de sa maison. Telle etait I'odieuse 
procedure adoptee a Venise, que sur cette accusation 
Becrete, le fils du doge, du representant de la majeste 
de la republique, fut mise a la torture. On lui arracha 
par I'estrapade I'aveu des charges portees centre lui ; 
il fut relegue pour le reste de ses jours a Napoli de Ro- 
manie, avec oblisation de se presenter chaque matin au 
commandant de la place. ^ Cependant, le vaisseau qui 
le portait ayant touche a Trieste, Jacob, grievement 
malade des suites de la torture, et plus encore de I'hu- 
miliation qu'il avait eprouvee, demanda en grace au 
conseil des dix de n'etre pas envoye plus loin. II obtint 
cette faveur, par une deliberation du 2S decembre 1446 ; 
lI fut rappele a Trevise, et il eut la liberte d'habiter tout 
le Trevisan indifferemnient.^ 

H vivait en paix a Tre\-i5e ; et la fil' " Je Leonard Con- 
Idrini, qu'il avait epousee le 10 fevrier 1441, etait venue 
e joindre dans son exil, lorsque, le o novembre 1450, 
Aimoro Donato, chef du conseil des dLx, fut assassine. 
Les deux autres inquisiteurs d'etat, Triadano Gritti et 
Antonio Venieri, porterent leur soupcoas sur Jacob 
Foscari, parcequ'un dom.estique a lui, nomme Olivier, 
avait ete vu cc soir-la meme a Venise, et avait des pre- 
miers donne la nouvelle de cet assassinat. Olivier fut 
mis a la torture, mais il nia jusqu'a la fin, avec un cour- 
age inebranlable, le crime dont on I'accusait, quoique 
Bes juses eussent la barbaric de lui faire donner jusqu'a 
qiiatrc-'^Tngt tours d'estrapade. Cependant, comme 
Jacob Foscari avait de puissans motifs d'inimitie contre 
e conseil des dLx quil'avait condamne, et qui temoignait 
<\p la haine au dose son pere, on essaya de mettre a son 
^'in Jaob a la torture, et I'on prolongea contre lui ces 

1 Marin Sanuto, p. 9CS. 

2 Ibid p. 963. 

•1 Ibid. Vite. p. 1123. 



affreux tourmens, sans reussir h. en tirer aucune con 
fession. Malgre sa denegation, le conseil des dLx le 
condamna a ctre transporte a la Canee, et accorda une 
recompense a son delateur. ■Nlais les horribles douleur? 
que Jacob Foscari avait eprouvees, avaient trouble sa 
raison ; ses persecuteurs, touches de ce dernier malheur, 
permirent qu'on le ramenat a Venise le 26 mai 1451. 
n embrassa son pere, il puisa dans ses exhortations 
quelque courage et quelque calnie, et il fut reconauit 
immediatement a la Canee.' Sur ces entrefaites, Nico- 
las Erizzo, homme deja note pour un precedent crime, 
confessa, en mourant, que c'etait lui qui avoit tue Ai- 
moro Donate.^ 

Le malhevu-eux doge, Francois Foscari, avait deja 
cherche, a plusieurs reprises, a abdiquer une dignite si 
funeste a lui-meme et a sa farmlle. II lui semblait 
que, redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, comme il 
n'inspirerait plus de crainte ou de jalousie, on n'acca- 
blerait plus son fils par ces effroyables persecutions. 
Abattu par la mort de ses premiers enfans, il avoit vou- 
lu, des le 26 juin, 1433, deposer ime disrnite, durant 
I'exercice de laqueUe sa patrie avait ete tourmentee par 
la guerre, par la peste, et par des malheurs de tout 
genre.-' II renouvela cette proposition apres les juge- 
mens rendus contre son fils ; mais le conseil des dix le 
retenait forcement sur le trone, comme il retenait son 
fils dans les fers. 

En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter chaque 
jour au gouvemeur de la Canee, reclamait contre I'in- 
justice de sa demiere sentence, siu- laquelle la confession 
d'Erizzo ne laissait plus de doutes. En vam il deman- 
dait grace au farouche conseil des dix; il ne pouvait 
obtenir aucune reponse. Le desir de revoir son pere et 
sa mere, arrives tous deux au dernier termc de la vieil- 
lesse, le desir de revoir une patrie dont la cruaute ne 
meritait pas un si tendre amour, se changereat en lui 
en une vraie fiireur. Ne pouvant retourner a Venise 
pour y vivre libre, il voulut du moins y aller chercher 
un supplice. H ecrivit au due de ISIilan a la fin de mai 
1456, pour implorer sa protection aupres du senat ; et 
sachant qu'une telle lettre serait consideree comme un 
crime, il I'exposa lui-meme dans un lieu ou il etait sur 
qu'elle serait saisie par ies espions qui I'entouraient. 
En effet, la lettre etant deferee au conseil des dix, on 
I'envova chercher aussitot, et il fut reconduit a Venise 
le 19 juiUet 1456.* 

Jacob Foscari ne nia point 3a lettre, il raconta en 
meme temps dans quel but il I'avait ecrite, et comment 
il I'avait fait tomber entre les mains de son delateur. 
jNIalsrre ces aveux, Foscari fut remis a la torture, et on 
lui donna trente tours d'estrapade, pour voir s'il confir- 
merait ensuite ses depositions. Quand on le detacha 
de la corde, on le trouva dechire par ces horribles se- 
cousses. Les juses permirent alors k son pere, a sa 
m&re, a sa femme, et a ses fils, d'aller le voir dans sa 
prison. Le vieux Foscari, appuye sur son baton, ne se 
traina qu'avec peine dans la chambre ou son fils imique 
etait pause de ses blessiu-es. Ce fils demandait encore 
la grace de mourir dans sa maison. — " Retourne a ton 
exil, mon fils, puisque ta patrie I'ordonne," lui dit le 
doge, "et soum.ets-toi a savolonte." Mais en rentraxit 

1 Marin Sanuto. p. 1135.— M. Ant. SaJiellico Oeca III 
Je rv. f. J87. 

2 Ibid. 1139. 

3 Ibid. p. 1032. 

4 Ibid. p. 1162. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



35 J 



dans son palais, ce malheureux vieiUard s'evanouit, 
epuise par la violence qu'il s'etait faite. Jacob devait 
encore passer une annee en prison a la Canee, avant 
Qu'on lui rendit la meme liberie limitee a laquelle il 
etait reduit avant cet evenement ; mais a peine fut-il 
debarque sur cette terre d'exil, quil y mourat de dou- 
leur.i 

Des-lors, et pendant quinze mois, le vieux doge acca- 
ble d'annees et de chagrins, ne recou\Ta plus la force 
de son corps ou celle de son ame ; il n'assistait plus a 
aucun des conseHs, et il ne pouvait plus remplir aucune 
des fonctions de sa dignite. H etait entre dans sa 
quatre-vingt-sLxieme annee, et si le conseil des dix avail 
ete susceptible de quelque pitie, LI aurait attendu en 
silence la fin, sans doute prochaine, d'une carriere mar- 
quee part tant de gloire et tant de malheurs. 3Iais le 
chef du conseil des dix etait alors Jacques Loredano, 
fils de ^larc, et neveu de Pierre, le grand amiral, qui 
toute leur vie avaient ete les ennemis acharnes du vieux 
doge. lis avaient transmis leur haine a leurs enfants, 
et cette vieille rancune n'etait pas encore satisfaite.- A 
I'mstigation de Loredano, Jerome Barbarigo, inquisi- 
teur d'etat, proposa au conseil des dLx, au mois d'oc- 
tobre 1457, de soumettre Foscari a vme nouveUe humi- 
liation. Des que ce magistral ne pouvait plus remplir 
ses fonctions, Barbarigo demanda qu'on nommat un 
autre doge. Le conseU, qui avait refiise par deux fois 
I'abdication de Foscari, parceque la constitution ne 
pouvait la permettre, hesita avant de se mettre en con- 
tradiction avec ses propres decrets. Les discussions 
dans le conseil et la junte se prolongerent pendant huit 
jours, jusque fort avant dans la nuit. Cependant, on 
fit entrer dans I'assemblee Marco Foscari, procurateur 
db Saint-Marc, et fr^re du doge, poiu- qu'il fiit lie par 
le redoutable serment du secret, et qu'il ne put arreter 
les mesures de ses ennemis, Enfin, le conseil se rendit 
aupres du doge, et lui demanda d'abdiquer volontaire- 
ment un emploi qu'il ne pouvait plus exercer. " J'ai 
jure" repondit le vieillard, "de remplir jusqu'a ma 
mort, selon mon hormeur et ma conscience, les fonc- 
tions auxquelles ma patrie m'a appele. Je ne puis me 
delier moi-meme de mon serment ; qu'un ordre des con- 
seils dispose de moi, je m'y soumettrai, mais je ne le 
devancerai pas." Alors une nouvelle deliberation du 
conseil delia Francois Foscari de son serment ducal, lui 
assura une pension de deux mille ducats pour le reste 
de sa vie, et lui ordonna d'evacuer en trois jours le 
paiais, et de deposer les omemeus de sa dignite. Le 
doje avant remarque pamii les conseiUers qui lui por- 
terent cet ordre, un chef de la quarantie qu'il ne con- 
naissait pas, demanda son nom : " Je suis le fils de Marco 
Memmo," lui dit le conseiHer — " Ah ! ton pere etait 
mon ami," lui dit le vieux doge, en soupirant. H dorma 
aussitot des ordres pour qu'on transportat ses efiets 
dans une maison a lui ; -et le lendemain, 23 octobre, on 
le vit, se soutenani a peine, et appuye sur son vieux 
frere, redescendre ces memes escaliers sur lesquels, 
trente-quatre ans auparavant, on I'avait vu installe avec 
tant de pompe, et traverser ces mSmes saJles ou la repu- 
bliqiie avait recu ses sermens. Le peuple entier parut 
iuoigne de tant de durete exerces centre un vieiUard 
r.ti J respectait et qu'il aimait ; mais le conseil des dix 



fit publier une defense de parler de cette revolution, 
sous peine d'etre traduit devant les inquisiteurs d'etat, 
Le 20 octobre, Pasqual Malipieri, procurateur de Saint- 
IMarc, fiit elu pour successeur de Foscari ; celui-ci n'eut 
pas neanmoins rhunuliaticn de vivre sujet, la ou il 
avait regne. En entendant le son des cloches, qui son- 
naient en actions de grace pour cette election, il mourul 
subitement d'une hemorragie causee par ime veine qin 
s'eclata dans sa poitrine. ' 



" Le doge, blesse de trouver constamment un contra 
dicteur et un censeur si amer dans son fi-ere, lui dit un 
jour en plein conseil: ' Messire Augustin, vous faites 
tout votre possible pour hater ma mort ; vous vous flat- 
tez de me succeder ; mais si les autres vous coimaissent 
aussi bien que je vous connais. Us n'auront garde de 
vous elire.' La dessus il se leva, emu de colere, rentra 
dans son appartement, et mounit quelques jours apres. 
Ce fi-ere centre lequel U s'etait emporte fiit precisement 
le successeur qu'on lui donna. C'etait un merite dont 
on aimait a tenir compte, surtout a un peirent, de s'etre 
mis en opposition avec le chef de la republique."^ Dam, 
Histoire de Venise, vol. ii. sec. xi. p. 533. 



1 'Marui Sanuto, p. 1163. — Xaradero Stor. Venez. p. 1113. 
M Vetio • ^andi Storia civDe di Veneziana, P. II. L. \'1II. p. 
?15. p. 71/ 



ly Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
" Italy," I perceive tlie expression of " Rome of the 
Ocean" appUed to Venice. The same phrase occurs in 
the " Two Foscari." My publisher ccua vouch for me 
that the tragedy was written and sent to England some 
i time before I had seen Lady Morgan's work, which i 
only received on the 16th of August. I hasten, however, 
to notice the coincidence, and to yield the originality of 
the phrase to her who first placed it before the public. 
I am the more anxious to do this, as I am informed (for 
I have seen but few of the specimens, and those accident- 
dJlj) that there have been lately brought against me 
charges of plagiarism. I have also had an anonvmous 
sort of threatening intimation of the same kind, appa- 
rently with the mtent of extorting monev. To such 
charges I have no answer to make. One of them is lu- 
dicrous enough. I am reproached for having formed 
the description of a ship^vreck in verse fi-om the narra- 
tives of many actual shipwrecks in prose, selecting such 
materials as were most striking. Gibbon makes it a 
merit in Tasso " to have copied the minutest details of the 
siege of Jerusalem from the Chronicles." In 77?eitmay 
be a dem.erit, I presume : let it remain so. Whilst I have 
been occupied in defending Pope's character, the lower 
orders of Grub-street appear to have been assailing mine : 
this is as it should be, both in them and in me. One of 
the accusations in the nameless epistle alluded to is still 
more laughable : it states seriously that I " received five 
hundred pounds for writing advertisements for Day 
and Martin's patent blacking!" This is the highest 
compliment to my literary powers which I ever received- 
It states also " that a person has been trying to make 

1 Marin Sanuto, Vita de' Duchi di Venezia, p. IIW — 
Chronicio-Ti Eugubinum, T. XXI. p. 99-2. — Cfaristoforo rn 
Soldo Istoria Bresciana, T. XXI. p. 831. — Xavi?ero Storia 
Veneziana, T. XXIII. p. 11-20.— M. A. Sabeliico. Dsca HI 
L. Vm, f. 201 

2 The Venetians appear to have had a particular tam ror 
breakins the hearts of their Dogp^; the above is another in- 
stance of the kind in the Doge Marco Barbarigo : he was suc- 
ceeded by his bi-other Agosiino Barbarigo, whose chief merP 
is above-mentioned. 



3G0 



BYRON S WORKS. 



icquaintance wdth JMr. Touaisend, a gentleman of the 
la\v, who was with me on business in Venice three 
years ago, for the purpose of obtaining any defama- 
tory particulars of my life from this occasional visitor." 
Mr. Townsend is welcome to say what he knows. I men- 
tion these particulars merely to show the world in gen- 
eral what the literary lower world contains, and their 
way of setting to work. Another charge made, I am 
told, in the " Literary Gazette " is, that I wTOte the notes 
to " Queen Mab ;" a work w-hich I never saw till some 
time after its publication, and which I recollect showing 
to Mr. Sotheby as a poem of great power and imagi- 
nation. I never wrote a hne of the notes, nor ever saw 
them except in their pubUshed form. No one knows 
better than their real author, that his opinions and 
mine differ materially upon the metaphysical portion 
of that work ; though, in common with all who are not 
blinded by baseness and bigotry, I highly admire the 
poetry of that and his other publications. 

Mr. South ey, too, m his pious preface to a poem whose 
blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition of Wat Tyler, 
because it is equally absurd with that sincere production, 
calls upon the " legislature to look to it," as the tolera- 
tion of such writings led to the French Revolution : not 
such writings as Wat Tyler, but as those of the " Satanic 
School." This is not true, and Mr. Southey knows it to be 
not true. Every French writer of any freedom was perse- 
cuted ; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel 
and Diderot were sent to the BastUe, and a peipetual war 
was waged with the whole class by the existing despotism. 
In the next place, the French Revolution was not occa- 
sioned by any writings whatsoever, but must have occur- 
red had no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to 
attribute every thing to the French Revolution, and the 
French Revolution to every thing but its real cause. 
That cause is obvious — the government exacted too 
much, and the people could neither give nor hear more. 
Without this, the Encyclopedists might have written 
their fingers off without the occurrence of a single alter- 
ation. And the English Revolution — (the first, I mean) 
what was it occasioned by? The Puritans were surely 
as pious and moral as Wesley or his biographer ? Acts — 
acts on the part of government, and not writings against 
them, have caused the past convulsions, and are tending 
to the iuture. 

I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolu- 
tionist: I wish to see the EngUsh constitution restored, 
and not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally 
one by temper, with the greater part of my present prop- 
erty in the funds, what have I to gain by a revolution ? 
Perhaps I have m.ore to lose in every way than Mr. Sou- 
fJiey, with all his places and presents for panegyrics and 
abus'^ into the bargain. But that a revolution is inevi- 
table, 1 repeat. The government may exult over the 
repression of petty tumults ; these are but the receding 
waves repulsed and broken for a moment on the shores 
while the great tide is still rolling on and gaining ground 
with every breaker. Mr. Southey accuses us of attacking 
die religion of the country ; and is he abetting it by writ- 
ing ..ves of Wesley ? One mode of worship is merely de- 
stroyed by another. There never was, nor ever -will be, a 
country without a religion. We shall be told of JPmrjce 
ajjain : but it was only Paris and a frantic party, which 



for a moment upheld their dogmatic nonsense of theo phi- 
lanthropy. The church of England, if overthrown, wiQ 
be swept away by the sectarians, and not by the sceptics. 
People are too wise, too well-informed, too certain of 
their o^^^l immense importance in the realms of space, 
ever to submit to the impiety of doubt. There may be a 
few such diffident speculators, like water m the pa.e sun- 
beam of human reason, but they are very few j and their 
opinions, without enthusiasm or appeal lo th -, passions, 
can never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they are 
persecuted : that, to be sure, will increase any thing. 

Mr. S., with a cowardly ferocity, exults over the an- 
ticipated " death-bed repentance" of the objects of his 
dislike ; and indulges himself in a pleasant " Vision of 
Judgment," in prose as well as verse, full of impious 
impudence. What Mr. S.'s sensations or ours may be 
in the awful moment of leaving this state of existence, 
neither he nor v/e can pretend to decide. In common, 
I presume, with most men of any reflection, / have not 
waited for a "death-bed" to repent of many of my 
actions, notwithstanding the " diabolical pride " which 
this pitiful renegado in his rancour would impute to 
those who scorn him. Whether, upon the whole, the 
good or evil of my deeds may preponderate, is not for 
me to ascertaui • but, as my means and opportunities 
have been greater, I shall limit my present defence to an 
assertion (easily proved, if necessary) that I, " in my de 
gree," have done more real good in any one given year, 
since I was twenty, than Mr. Southey in the whole 
course of his shifting and turncoat existence. There are 
several actions to w-hich I can look back with an honest 
pride, not to be damped by the calumnies of a hireling. 
There are others to wliich I recur with sorrow and re- 
pentance ; but the only act of 7??^ life of ^^•hich ISIr. 
Southey can have any real knowledge, as it was one 
which brought me in contact with a near connexion ot 
his onTi, did no dishonour to that connexion nor to me. 

I am not ignorant of Mr. Southey's calumnies on a dif- 
ferent occasion, knowing them to be such, which he 
scattered abroad, on his return from Switzerland, against 
me and others : they have done him no good in this 
world ; and, if his creed be the right one, they will do 
him less in the next. What his " death-bed " may be, 
it is not my province to predicate : let him settle it with 
his Maker, as I must do with mine. There is something 
at once ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant scrib- 
bler of all works sitting do\'\Ti to deal damnation and de- 
struction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat Tyler, the 
Apotheosis of George the Third, and the Elegy on Mar- 
tin the regicide, all shuffled together in his writing-desk. 
One of his consolations appears to be a Latin note from 
a work of a Mr. Landor, the author of " Gebir," whose 
friendship for Robert Southey will, it seems, " be an 
honour to him when the ephemeral disputes and ephe- 
meral reputations of the day are forgotten." I for one 
neither enw him "the friendship," nor the glory in 
reversion which is to accrue from it, like Mr. Thelus- 
son's fortune in the third and fourth generation. — 
This friendship will probably be as memorable as his 
OA\Ti epics, v.hich (as I quoted to him ten or twelve years 
ago in English Bards) Porson said "would be remem- 
bered when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, and not tiL. 
then." For the present, I leave him. 



( 361 ) 
A MYSTERY. 

Now the serpent was more subtil tlian any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. — Oen. iii. 1 



TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

THIS "3VEYSTSRY OF CAIN" IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOf.. 



PREFACE. 



The fo!lowing scenes are intitled "alNIystery," in con- 
formity \vith the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
similar subjects, which were styled " Blysteries," or 
"Moralities." The author has by no means taken the 
same liberties mth his subject which were common for- 
merly, as may be seen by any reader curious enough to 
refer to those very profane productions, whether in 
English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has 
endeavoured to preserve the language adapted to his 
characters ; and where it is (and this is but rarely) taken 
from actual Scripture^ he has made as Httle alteration, 
even of words, as the rhythm would permit. The 
reader wiU recollect that the book of Genesis does not 
state that Eve was tempted by a demon, but by " the 
Serpent;" and that only because he was "the most 
subtil of all the beasts of the field." Whatever interpre- 
Sation the Rabbins and the Fathers may have put upon 
Jus, I must take the words as I find them, and reply 
with Bishop Watson upon similar occasions, when the 
Fathers were quoted to him, as IModerator in the Schools 
of Cambridge, "Behold the Book!" — holding up the 
Scripture. It is to be recollected that my present sub- 
ject has nothing to do with the New Testament^ to 
wluch no reference can be here made withgut ana- 
chronism. With the poems upon similar topics I have 
not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I have 
never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
before, that this may make little difference. Gesner's 
"Death of Abel" I have never read since I was eight 
years of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of 
my recollection is deUght; but of the contents, I remem- 
ber only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's 
Thirza.— In the following pages I have called them 
" Adah" and " Zillah," the earUest female names which 
occur in Genesis ; they were those of Lamech's wives ; 
those of Cain and Abel are not called by their names. 
Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may have 
caused the same in expression, I know nothing, and 
care as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few 
choose to recollect) that there is no allusion to a future 
state in any of the books of Moses, nor mdeed in thft | 
2 I 2 51 



Old Testament, For a reason for this ex raordinary 
omission, he may consult "Warburton's Divine Lega- 
tion;" whether satisfactory or not, no better has yet 
been assigned. I have therefore supposed it new to 
Cain, v/ithout, I hope, any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was diffi- 
cult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon the 
same subjects ; but I have done what I could to restrain 
him within the bounds of spiritual poUteness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of 
the Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has 
not the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, 
but merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has 
partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that 
the world had been destroyed several times before the 
creation of man. This speculation, derived from the 
different strata and the bones of enormous and un- 
known animals found in them, is not contrary to the 
Mosaic account, but rather confirms it ; as no human 
bones have yet been discovered in those strata, al- 
though those of many known animals axe found near 
the remains of the unkno^vn. The assertion of Lucifer, 
that the Pre- Adamite world was also peopled by rational 
beings much more intelligent than m.an, and propoir- 
tionably powerful to the mammoth, etc., etc., is, of 
course, a poetical fiction, to help him to make out hia 
case. 

I ought to add, that there is a " Tramelogedia" of 
Alfieri, called " Abel." — I have never read that nor any 
other of the posthumous works of the writer, exccir! 
his Ufe. 



DRAMi! 
MEN. 


LTIS 


PERSONiE. 






WOME^. 


Adam. 






Eve. 


Cain. 






Adah. 


Abel. 






Zillah. 




SPIRITS. 




Angel of 


THE 


LORB 


Lucifer. 







3G2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAIN. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 

Adam, Eve, Cain, Abet , Adah, Zillah, offering 

a Saciifice. 

ADAM. 

God, the Eternal! Infinite! All-Wise! — 
Who oirt of darkness on the deep didst make 
Li^ht on the waters with a word — all haU ! 
Jehovah, with returning Ught, all hail! 

EVE. 

God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst dinde the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

ABEL. 

God ! who didst call the elements into 

Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and \vith the day 

-Vnd night, and worlds which these illuminate 

Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them. 

And love both them and thee — all hail ! all hail ! 

ADAH. 

GoJ, the Eternal ! Parent of all thmgs ! 

Who didst create these best and beauteous beings. 

To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 

Let me love thee and them : — All haU ! all haU ! 

ZILLAH. 

Oh, God ! who loving, making, blessing all, 
Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in. 
And drive my father forth fi-om Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 

ADAM. 

Son Cain, my first-bom, wherefore art thou silent? 

CAIN. 

Why should I speak ? 

ADAM. 

To pray. 

CAIN. 

Have ye not pray'd ? 

ADAM. 

We have, most fervently. 

CAIN. 

And loudly : I 
Have heard you. 

ADAM. 

So will God, I trust. 

ABEL. 

Amen! 

ADAM. 

But thou, ray eldest-bom, art silent still. 

CAIN. 

*T IS bettp" X ihould be so. 

ADAM. 

Wherefo.e so ? 

CAIN. 

I ha'f nought to ask. 

ADAM. 

Nor aught to thank for ? 
CAin. 

No. 



Dost thou not live ? 



CAIN. 

Must I not die? 



Alas! 
The fhiit of our forbidden tree begins 
TofaU. 

ADAM. 

And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of knowledge 

, CAIN. 

And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree of life ? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

ADAM. 

Oh ! my son, 
Blaspheme not : these are serpents' words. 

CAIN. 

Why not? 
The snake spoke tniih ; it was the tree of knowledge ; 
It was the tree of Ufe : — knowledge is good, 
Ajjd Ufe is good ; and how can both be e^^l ? 

EVE. 

My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke in sin, 
Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snai-es beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
Content thee ■nith what is. Had we been so. 
Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son ! 

ADAM. 

Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labour. 

EVE. 

Cam, my son. 
Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd. 
And do as he doth. 

\^Exit Adam and Evfc. 

ZILLAH. 

Wilt thou not, my brother? 

ABEL. 

Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy brow, 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Etemal anger ? 

ADAH. 

Bly beloved Cain, 
Wilt thou fro^vn even on me ? 

CAIN. 

No, Adah ! no ; 
I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I 'm sick at heart ; but it will pass • 
Precede me, brother — I ^iil follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, taiTy not behind ; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I '11 follow you anon. 

ADAH. 

If not, I will 
Retum to seek you here. 

ABEL. 

The peace of God 
Be on your spu-it, brother ! 

[Eant Abel, Zillah, and Adah 



CAIN {solus). 

And this is 
Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had / done in this ? — I was unborn, 
I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, 
Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
One answer to all questions, " 't was his \vill, 
And he is good." How know I that? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all- good, too, follow ? 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whom have we here? — A shape like to the angels, 
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect. 
Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance. 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls, 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
The cherubim-defended battlements ? 
If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 
Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? 
Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
Half of his immortality. And is it 
So ? and can aught grieve save humanity? 
He Cometh. 

Enter Lucifer. 

LXrciFER. 

Mortal! 

CAIIT. 

Spirit, who art thou ? 

LUCIFEK. 

Master of spirits. 

CAIX. 

And being so, canst thou 
Leave them, and walk with dust? 

LUCIFER. 

I know the thoughts 
Of dust, and feel for it, and vrith you. 

CAIN. 

How! 

You know my thoughts ? 

LUCIFER. 

They are the thoughts of all 
Worthy of thought ; — 't is your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

CAIN. 

What immortal part ? 
This has not been reveal'd ; the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 

LUCIFER. 

They have deceived thee ; thou shalt bve. 

CAIN. 

I live, 

But live to die : and, living, see no thing 



To make death hateful, save an imiate clinging, 
A loathsome and yet all invincible 
Instinct of hfe, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 

LUCIFER. 

Thou Uvest, and must live for ever : thmk noi 
The eai-th, which is thine outward covering, is 
Existence — it veill cease, and thou Avilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

CAIN. 

No less ! and why 
No more ? 

LUCIFER. 

It may be thou shalt be as we. 

CAIN. 

And ye? 

LUCIFER. 

Are everlasting. 

CAIN. 

Are ye happy ? 

LUCIFER. 

We are mighty. 

CAIN. 

Are ye happy ? 

LUCIFER. 

No : art thou ? 

CAIN. 

How should I be so ? Look on me ! 

LUCIFER. 

Poor clay ! 
And thou pretendest to be wTCtched ! Thou ! 

CAIN. 

I am : — and thou, wth all thy might, vv^hat art thou ? 

LUCIFER. 

One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

CAIN. 

Ab» 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and — 

LUCIFER. 

I am none : 
And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquer'd ; let him reign : 

CAIN. 

Who? 

LUCIFER. 

Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

CAIN. 

And heaven s. 
And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father sailh. 

LUCIFER. 

They say — what they must sing and say, on paiii 
Of being that which I am — and thou an — 
Of spirits and of men. 

CAIN. 

And what is that ? 

LUCIFER. 

Souls wno dare use their immortality — 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made. 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe- 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmalte , 
We are immortal ! — nay, he 'd have us so. 



S64 



BYRON'S WORKS 



That he may torture :— let him ! He is great— 

But, in his greatness, is no happier than 

We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 

Evil; and what else hath he made? But let him 

Sit on his vast and soHtary throne, 

Creating worlds, to make eternity 

Less burthensome to his immense existence 

And unjjarticipated solitude ! 

Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone, 

Indefinite, indissoluble tyi-ant ! 

Could he but crush himself, 't were the best boon 

He ever granted : but let him reign on, 

And multiply himself in misery ! 

Spirits and men, at least we sympathize ; 

And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 

Innumerable, more endurable. 

By the unbounded sympathy of all — 

With all! But He! so wretched in his height, 

So restless in his wretchedness, must still 

Create, and re-create 

CAIN. 

Thou speak'st to me of things which long have swum 
In visions through my thought : I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My father and my mother talk to me 
Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
Which shut them out, and me : I feel the weight 
Of daily toil, and constant thought: I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things : — but I thought alone 
This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
r>Iy sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Than the bird's matins ; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she too understands not 
Thf; mind which overwhelms me : never till 
Now met I aught to sympathize with me. 
r is well — I rather would consort with spirits. 

LUCIFER. 

Vnd hadst thou not been fit by thine o^vn soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 

CAIN. 

Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 

LUCIFER. 

I tempt none. 
Save with the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful ? Did / bid her pluck them not ? 
Din i plant things prohibited \vithin 
The rearh of beings innocent, and curious 
By ♦heir own mnocence ? I would have maJe ye 
Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth so thrust ye 
Because. '• vp should not eat the fruits of life, 
\nd become gods as we." Were those his words ? 

CAIN. 

rhey WCTC. as I have heard from those who heard them 



In thunder. 

LUCIFER. 

Then who was the demon ? He 
WTio would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge ? 

CAIN. 

Would they had snatch'd both 
The fruits, or neither ! 

LUCIFER. 

One is yours already, 
The other may be still. 

CAIN. 

How so , 

LUCIFER. 

By being 
Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 't is made 
To sway. 

CAIN. 

But didst thou tempt my parents ? 

LUCIFER. 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 

CAIN. 

They say the serpent was a spirit. 

LUCIFER. 

Who 
Saith that ? It is not -written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify. 
Though man's vast fears and litde vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
Smce he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Thmk'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that die i 

CAIN. 

But the thing had a demon ? 

LUCIFER. 

He but woke one 
In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes and your seed's. 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him who made things but to bend 
Before his sullen sole eternity ; 
But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing. 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt them 1 Wlati 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st not 

With all thy tree of knowledge. 

CAIN. 

But thou cans; not 
Speak aught of knowledge which 1 would not know. 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a rnnd 
To know. 



LUCIFER. 

And heart to look on ? 

CAIN. 

Be it proved. 

LUCIFER. 

Dar'st thou to look on Death? 

CAIN. 

He has not yet 
Been seen. 

LUCIFER. 

But must be imdergone. 

CAIN. 

My father 
Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel Ufls his eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

LUCIFER. 

And thou ? 

CAIN. 

Thoughts unspeakable 
Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
Of this ahiiighty Death, who is, it seems, 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him? 
I wrestled with a Hon, when a boy. 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

LUCIFER. 

It has no shape, but will absorb all things 
That bear the form of earth-bom being. 

CAIN. 

Ah! 
I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ask the Destroyer. 

CAIN. 

Who? 

LUCIFER. 

The Maker— call him 
Which name tnou wilt ; he makes but to destroy. 

CAIN. 

I knew not that, yet thought it, since I heard 

Of death ; although I know not what it is, 

Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 

In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 

And, when I saw gigantic shadows in 

The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 

By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 

I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; for 

With fear rose longing in my heart to know 

What 't was which shook us all — but nothing came. 

And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 

Our native and forbidden Paradise, 

Up to the lights above Us, in the azure. 

Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? 

LUCIFER. 

Perhaps— but long outlive both thine and thee. 

CAIN. 

I 'm glad of that ; I would not have them die, 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
I cannot compass : 't is denounced against us, 
Both them wlio sjnn'd and siim'd not, as an ill— 
What ill? 



LUCIFEK. 

To be resolved into the earth. 

CAIN. 

But shall I know it ? 

LUCIFER. 

As I know not death, 
I cannot answer. 

CAIN. 

Were I quiet earth, 
That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust ! 

LUCIFER. 

That is a grov'Iing wish. 
Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 

CAIN. 

But not to Uve, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
TheUfe-tree? 

LUCIFER. 

He was hinder'd. 

CAIN. 

Deadly error 
Not to snatch first that fruit : but ere he pluck'a 
The knowledge, he Avas ignorant of death. 
Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 

LUCIFER. 

And I, who know all things, fear nothing : see 
What is true knowledge. 

CAIN. 

Wilt thou teach me all ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay, upon one condition. 

CAIN. 

Name it, 

LUCIFER. 

That 
Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

CAIN. 

Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 

LUCIFER. 

No. 

CAIN. 

His equal ? 

LUCIFER. 

No ; — I have nought in common with hun 
Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

CAIN. 

I never 
As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice :- 
Why should I bow to thee ? 

LUCIFER. 

Hast thou ne'er bow »i 
To him? 

CAIN. 

Have I not said it ? — need I say .t ? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that "f 

LUCIFER. 

He who bows not to him has bow'd to me ' 

CAIN. 

But I win bend to neither 



SGG BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


UCIFER. 


To be our guests— will he ? 


Ne'ertheless, 


CAIN {to Lucifer). 


Thou art my worshipper: not worshipping 


WUt thou ? 


Him makes thee mine the same. 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


I ask 


And what is that? 


Thee to be mine. 


LUCIFER. 

Thou 'It ioiow here — and hereafter. 


CAIN. 

I must away with him. 


CAIN. 


iDAH. 


Let me but 


And leave tis ? 


Bft taught the mystery of my being. 


CAIN. 

Ay. 


LUCIFER. 


FoUow 


ADAH. 


Where I will lead thee. 


And me? 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


But I must retire 


Beloved Adah! 


To till the earth— for I had promised 


ADAH. 


LUCIFER. 


Let me go with thee. 


What? 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


No, she must not. 


To cull some first fruits. 


ADAH. 




Who 


LUCIFER. 

Why? 


Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ' 


CAIN. 

To offer up 


CAIN. 

He is a god. 


With Abel on an altar. 


ADAH. 

How know'st thou ? 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


Saidst tnou not 


He speaks like 


Thou ne'er hadst bent to him that made thee ? 


A god. 


CAIN. 


ADAH. 


Yes- 


So did the serpent, and it lied. 


But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 


LUCIFER. 


The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 


Thou errest, Adah !— was not the tree that 


LUCIFER. 


Of knowledge ? 


Why dost thou hesitate? 


ADAH. 


CAIN. 


Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 


She is my sister, 


LUCIFER. 


Burn on the same day, of the same womb ; and 


And yet that grief is knowledge— so he lied not : 


Slie wrung from me, with tears, this promise, and 


And if he did betray you, 'twas %vith truth ; 


Rather than see her weep, I would, methinks. 


And truth in its owti essence cannot be 


Bear all — and worship aught. 


But good. 


LUCIFER. 


ADAH. 


Then follow me ! 


But all we know of it has gather'd 


CAIN. 


Evil on evil : expulsion from our home. 


IwilL 


And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 


Enter Adah. 


Remorse of that which was, and hope of that 


ADAH. 


Which Cometh not. Cam ! walk not with this spirit. 


My brother, I have come for thee ; 


Bear with what we have borne, and love me— I 


It is our hour of rest and joy— and we 


Love thee. 


Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 


LUCIFER. 


lliis mom ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 


More than thy mother and thy su-e ? 


Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 


ADAH. 


Come away. 


I do. Is that a sin, too ? 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


See'st thou not? 


No, not yet ; 


ADAH. 


It one day will be in your children. 


I see an angel ; 


ADAH. 


Wo have seen many: wli he share our hour 


What! 


Of rest ? — he is welcome. 


Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


But he is not like 


Not as thou lovest Cain! 


Til" angels we have seen. 


ADAH. 


ADAH. 


Oh, my GoQ ! 


Are there, then, others ? 


Shan they not love, and bring forth things that love 


«iM he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 


Out of their love ? have they not dra\\-n their milk 




Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
Born ot the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other, and, 
[n multiplying our being, multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them'' — And, as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

LUCIFER. 

The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in yo\i — whate'er 
It seem in those who wiU replace ye in 
Mortality. 

ADAH. 

What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

rUCIFER. 

Higher things than ye are slaves : and higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of tortiu-e 
To the smooth agonies of adulation 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

ADAH. 

Omnipotence 
Must be all goodness. 

LUCIFER. 

Was it so in Eden ? 

ADAH. 

Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

LUCIFER. 

As true. 
Ask Eve, your mother ; bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

ADAH. 

Oh, my mother ! thou 
Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than to thyself; thou at the least hast past 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits ; 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us ^vith our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cajinot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me : I cannot abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear. 
And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction, which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on liis ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near. 
Nearer and nearer ; Cain — Cain — save me from him ! 

CAIN. 

(Vhat dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 

ADAH. 

He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs : he looks not 
Like them. 

CAIN. 

But there are spirits loftier still — 
The archange]s>. 



LUCIFER. 

And stiU loftier than the archangels. 

ADAH. 

Ay — but not blessed. 

LUCIFER. 

If the blessedness 
Consists in slavery — no. 

ADAH. 

I have heard it said. 
The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
And this should be a cherub — smce he loves not. 

LUCIFER. 

And if the higher knowledge quenches love, 
What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least. 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
That they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — smce there la 
No other choice : your sire hath chosen already : 
His worship is but fear. 

ADAPT. 

Oh, Cain ! choose love. 

CAIN. 

For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
Born with me — but I love nought else. 

ADAH. 

Our parents ? 

CAIN. 

Did they love us when they snatch'd from the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 

ADAH. 

We were not bom then — and if we had been. 
Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? 

CAIN. 

My little Enoch ! and his Usping sister ! 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! nevei 

Shall men love the remembrance of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree of science 

And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 

Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, milUons, mjTiads, which may be. 

To inherit agonies accumulated 

By ages ! — And / must be sire of such things ! 

Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy. 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour. 

All w^e love in our children and each other. 

But lead them and ourselves through many yeais 

Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 

To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of Imow 

ledge 
Hath not fulfill'd its promise : — if they sinn'd, 
At least they ought to have knouTi all things thai aie 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that i 

ADAH. 

I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

CAIN. 

Be thou happy then alone 



368 BYRON'S WORKS. 


[ will have nought to do with happiness, 


ADAH. 


Which humbles me and mine. 


Yes — in his works. 


ADAH. 


LUCIFER. 


Alone I could not, 


But in his being ? 


Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 


ADAH. 


I thin'K I could be so, despite of death, 


No- 


Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 


Save in my father, who is God's owti image ; 


It seems an awful shadow — if I may 


Or in his angels, who are Uke to thee — 


Judge from what I have heard. 


And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 


LUCIFER. 


In seeming : as the silent sunny noon. 


And thou couldst not 


All light, they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 


Alone^ thou say'st, be happy ? 


Like an ethereal night, where long white clou^w 


ADAH. 


Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd starr, 


Alone! Oh, my God! 


Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 


Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 


With things that look as if they would be suns ; 


To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 


So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing. 


When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 


Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them. 


His brother, and our children, and our parents. 


They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 


LUCIFER. 


Thou seem'st unhappy ; do not make us so. 


Yet thy God is alone ; and is he happy, 


And I will weep for thee. 


Lonely and good ? 


LUCIFER. 


ADAH. 


Alas ! those tears ! 


He is not so ; he hath 


Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed— 


The angels and the mortals to make happy, 


ADAH. 


And thus becomes so in diffusing joy : 


Byrne? 


What else can joy be but the spreading joy ? 


LUCIFER. 

By all? 


LUCIFER. 


Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 


ADAH. 

What all? 


Or of his first-born son ; ask your own heart ; 


It is not tranquil. 


LUCIFER. 

The million nilhons— « 


ADAH. 

Alas ! no ; and you — 
Are you of heaven? 

LUCIFER. 


The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 


The unpeopled earth— and the o'er-peopled hell. 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 


If I am not, inquire 
The cause of this all-spreading happiness 


ADAH. 

OhCaiii! 
This spirit curseth us. 

CAIN. 


(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 


Maker of life and living things ; it is 


Let him say on ; 
Him will I follow. 


His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 


And some of us resist, and both in vain. 


ADAH. 


His seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial. 


Whither? 


Since better may not be without : there is 


LUCIFER. 


A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 


To a place 


To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 


Whence he snaU come back to thee in an tiour , 


Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 


But in that hour see things of many days , 


The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 


ADAH. 


ADAH. 


How can that be ? 


It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 


LUCIFER. 


lis beauty. 


Did not your Maker make 


LUCIFER. 


Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 


And why not adore ? 


And carmot I, who aided in this work. 


ADAH. 


Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 


Our father 


Or hath destroy'd in few ? 


Adores the Invisible only. 


CAIN. 


LUCIFER. 


Lead on. 


But the symbols 


ADAH. 


f »f the Invisible are the loveliest 


WiUhe 


Of what is visible; and yon bright star 


In sooth return within an hour ? 


Is leader of the host of heaven. 


LUCIFER. 


ADAH. 


He shall. 


Our father 


With us acts are exempt from time, and we 


Sailii that ne has beheld the God himself 


Can crowd eternity into an hour. 


Wl niade him and our mother. 


Or stretch an hour into eternity : 


LUCIFER. 


We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 


Hast iAou seen him? 


But that 's a mystery. Cain, come on with mo. 



CAIN. 



SG'J 



mil he return? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay, woman ! he alone 
Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save Oxe) — shall come back to thee, 
To maike that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

ADAH. 

Where dwellest thou ? 

LUCIFER. 

Throughout all space. Where should I dwell? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I ; all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eterruty — and heaven and earth — and that 
\Vhich is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I were not that which I have said, 
Could I stand here? His angels are within 
Your \asion. 

ADAH. 

So they were when the fair serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

LUCIFER. 

Cain ! thou hast heard. 
If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst : nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

CAIN. 

Spirit, I have said it. [Exeunt Lucifer aJid Cain. 
ADAH {folloiis, exclaiming) 

Cain! mv brother! Cam! 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

TTie Abyss of Space. 

CAIN. 

I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

LUCIFER. 

Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

CAIN. 

Can I do so without impiety? 

LUCIFER. 

Behcve — and smk not ! doubt — and perish ! thus 

Would run the edict of the other God, 

Wlio names me demon to his angels ; they 

Echo the sound to miserable things. 

Which, knowing nought oeyond their shallow senses. 

Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 

Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 

In their abasement. I will have none such : 

Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 

The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 

Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little Ufe, 

With torture of my dooming. There wiU come 

An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 

A man shaal say to a man, " Believe in me. 

And walk the waters ;" and the man shall walk 



2K 



52 



The billows and be safe. / will not say 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
WTiat thou dar'st not deny, the liistory 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

CAIN. 

Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art. 
Is yon our earth? 

LUCIFER. 

Dost thou not recognise 
The dust which form'd your father ? 

CAIN. 

C an it be ? 
Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether. 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 
WTiich looks like that which lit our earthly night '! 
Is tliis our Paradise ? Where are its walls. 
And they who guard them ? 

LUCIFER. 

Point me out the site 
Of Paradise. 

CAIN. 

How should I ? As we move 
Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smalle» 
And as it waxes httle, and then less, 
Gathers a halo roimd it, hke the hght 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
]Metliinks tliey both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their mpiads. 

LUCIFER. 

And if there, should be 
Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In nimiber than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and %vretched, 
WTiat wouldst thou think ? 

CAIN. 

I should be proud of thought 
WTiich knew such things. 

LUCIFER. 

But if that high thought weib 
Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and. 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things. 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd do^u 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
A.11 foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjojTnents a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat, 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
As fraU, and few so happy 

CAIN. 

Spirit! I 

Kjiow nought of death, save as a dreadful tlung. 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
Xo less than life ; a heritage not happy. 
If I may judge tiU now. But, spirit, if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
Here let me die : for to give birth to tiose 



370 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VVho can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks, is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

LtJCIFER. 

Thou canst not 
ylU die — there is what must survive. 

CAIN. 

The Other 
Spake not of this unto my father, whenf 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

LUCIFER. 

t arn angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 

CAIN. 

I know not what thou art : I see thy power. 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
Beyond all power of my bom faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

LUCIFER. 

What are they, which dweH 
So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

CAIN. 

And what art thou, who dwellest 
So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality, and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful? 

LUCIFER. 

I seem that which I am ; 
And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

CAIN. 

Thou hast said, I must be 
Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
'riiis until lately — but, since it must be, 
jLet me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

LUCIFER. 

I'hou didst before I came upon thee. 

CAIN. 

How? 

LUCIFER. 

«v suffering. 

CAIN. 

And must torture be immortal ? 

LUCIFER. 

We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ' 
Is it not glorious ? 

CAIN 

Oh, thou beautiful 
And unimaginable ether ! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still-increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roU along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on m your unbounaed revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion, at which my soul aches to think, 
Intoxicated with eternity? 
Oil God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
How hftaiitiful ve are ' how beautiful 



Your works, or accidents, or whaisoc'er 
They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die 
(If that they die), or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts aie not in this h>l 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

LUCIFEB 

Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine earth ! 

CAIN. 

Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

LUCIFER 

Look there ! 

CAIN. 

I cannot see it. 

LUCIFER. 

Yet it sparkles still. 

CAIN. 

What, yonder ? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea. 

CAIN. 

And wilt thou tell me so ? 
Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banKs 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
Each bright and sparkling, — what dost think of them? 

CAIN. 

That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

LUCIFER. 

But by whom, or what? 

CAIN. 

Show me. 

LUCIFER. 

Dar'st thou behold ? 

CAIN. 

How know I what 
I dare behold ? as yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on fui-ther. 

LUCIFER. 

On, then, with rae. 
Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 

CAIN. 

Why, what are things ? 

LUCIFER. 

Both partly : but what doth 
Sit next thy heart? 

CAIN. 

The things I sec. 

LUCIFER. 

But what 
iSa«c nearest it? 

CAIN. 

The things I have not seen, 
Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 

LUCIFER. 

What if I show to thee things which have died, 
As I have shown thee much wnich cannot die "* 



CAIN. 

Do so. 

LUCIFER. 

Away, then ! on our mighty wings, 

CAIN. 

Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade from us ! 
The earth ! where is my ecirth ? let me look on it, 
For I was made of it. 

LUCIFER. 

'T is now beyond thee, 
Less in the universe than thou in it : 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust ; 
'T is part of thy eternity, and mine. 

CAIN. 

Where dost thou lead me ? 

LUCIFER. 

To what was before thee ! 
The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

CAIN. 

What ! is it not then new ? 

LUCIFER. 

No more than life is : and that was ere thou 
Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
But changes m:.ke not death, except to clay ; 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 

CAIN. 

Clay, spirit! WTiat thou wilt, I can survey. 

LUCIFER. 

Away, then ! 

CAIN. 

But the lights fade from me fast. 
And some tiU now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

LUCIFER. 

And such they are. 

CAIN. 

Aiid Edens in them ? 

LUCIFER. 

It may be. 

CAIN. 

And men? 

LUCIFER. 

?'-2a, or things higher. 

CAIN. 

Ay ! and serpents too ? 

LUCIFER. 

IVculdst thou have men without them ? must no reptile 
Breathe, save the erect ones ? 

CAIN. 

How the lights recede ! 

Where fly we ? 

LUCIFER. 

To the world of phantoms, which 
Are bemgs past, and shadows still to come. 

CAIN. 

But i' grc <vs aa-k, and dark — the stars are gone ! 



LUCIFER. 

And yet thou seest. 

CAIN. 

'T is a fearful hght! 
No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary twilight ; yet I see 
Huge dusky masses, but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd fiill of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which tool" 
Like them the featm-es of fair earth : — instead. 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

LUCIFER. 

But distinct. 
Thou seekest to behold deatli, and dead things ? 

CAIN. 

I seek it not ; but as I know there are 

Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me. 

And all that we inherit, Uable 

To such, I would behold at once what I 

Must one day see perforce. 

LUCIFER. 

Behold! 



'T is darkness. 



LUCIFER. 



Unfold its gates ! 

CAIN. 

Enormous vapours roll 
Apart — ^what 's this ? 

LUCIFER. 

Enter ! 

CAIN. 

Can I return? 

LUCIFER. 

Return ! be sure : how else should death be peopled ? 
Its present reahn is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

CAIN. 

The clouds still open \vide 
And wider, and make widening circles round us 

LUCIFER. 

Advance ! 

CAIN. 

And thou ! 

LUCIFER. 

Fear not — without me thou 
Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 
[TTiey disappear through the clouo* 



SCENE n. 

Sadcs. 
Enter Lucifer and Cain. 

CAIN. 

How silent and how vast are these dim worlds ' 
For they seem more than one, and yet more peopie* 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swuna 
So thickly in the upper air, that I 



Had deera'd them rather the bright populace 

Of some all ununaginablc heaven 

Than things to be inhabited themselves, 

But that on drawing near them I beheld 

Their swelling into palpable immensity 

Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 

Rather than hfe itself. But here, all is 

So shado^vj' and so full of twihght, that 

it speaks of a day past. 

LUCIFER. 

It is the realm 
Oi death. — Woiddst have it present? 

CAIX. 

Till I know 
That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if It be as 1 have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homihes, 't is a tiling — 
Oh God ! I dare not think on'i ! Cursed be 
He who invented life tliat leads to death ! 
Or the dull mass of life, that being life 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the innocent ! 

LCCIFER. 

Dost thou curse thy father? 

CAIX. 

Cursed he not me in gi\ang me my birth? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

LUCIFER. 

Thou say'st well : 
The curse is mutual 't wixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother? 

CAI>% 

Let them share it 
With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
Bequeath'd to me? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Alighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
Live ye, or have ye Uved ? 

LtXCIFER. 

Somewhat of both. 

CAIX. 

Then what is death ? 

LUCIFER. 

WTiat ? Hath not He who made y i 
Said 't is another Ufe ? 

CAIN. 

Ti'2 now He hath 
Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

LUCIFER. 

Perhaps 
He one day will imfold that further secret. 

CAIX. 

Happy the day ! 

LUCIFER. 

Yes, happy ! when unfolded 
TluTDugh agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet imbom myriads of unconscious atoms, 
AiJ to be animated for this only ! 

CAiJr. 
^'hat are these mighty phantoms which I see 
Floating around rae ? — they wear not the form 
0/ the mtelligenccs I have seen 



Round our regretted and uucnter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have ^■iew'd it 
In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine. 
Nor in my sister-bride's nor in my children's ; 
And yet they have an aspect, wliich, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something which. 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The \^-ing of seraph, nor the face of man. 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught tliat is 
Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so imlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

LUCIFER. 

Yet they lived. 

CAIN. 

Where? 

LUCIFER. 



Whue 



Thou livesU 



When? 



They did mhabit. 



LUCIFER. 

On what thou callest earth 



CAIX. 

Adam is the first. 



LUCIFER. 

Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

CAIN. 

And what are they ? 

LUCIFER. 

That which 
Thou shalt be. 

CAIN. 

But what were they ? 

LUCIFER. 

Living, high, 
Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior tmto aU thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty- thousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
By thy own flesh. 

CAIN. 

Ah me ! and did ihej/ yensh 1 

LUCIFER. 

Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from ihine. 

CAIN. 

But was mine theirs ? 

LUCIFER. 

It was. 

CAIN. 

But not as now ; 
It is too Uttle and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 

LUCIFER. 

True, it was more glorious. 

CAIN. 

And wherefore did it fall ? 




LUCIFER. 

Ask Him ^ho fells. 

CAIN. 

Bnl how ? 

LUCIFER. 

By a most crusbing and inexorable 
Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
^Vhich struck a world to chaos, as a cnans 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
Tliough rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 
CAiir. 

'T is a%vful ! 

LUCIFER. 

And true. Behold these phantoms ! they were once 
Material as thou art. 

CAIN. 

And must I be 
Like them? 

LUCIFER. 

Let Him who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings, and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death ; the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjo}-ment was to be in blindness — 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were : 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — ^I '11 wail thee there in safety. 

CAIN. 

No : I 'U stay here. 

LUCIFER. 

« How long ? 

CAIN. 

For ever ! Since 
I must ore day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 

LUCIFER. 

ft cannot be : thou now beholdest as 

A \-ision that which is reality. 

To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 

Wust pass tlvough what the things thou see'st have 

pass'd — 
rhe gates of death. 

CAIN. 

By what gate have we enter'd 
Even now ? 

LUCIFER. 

By mine ! But, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

CAIN. 

And these, too, can they ne'er repass 
To earth again ? 
2k2 



LUCIFER. 

Tlieir earth is gone for ever — 
So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely-harden'd surface — 't was — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it was .' 

CAIN. 

And is ; 
It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful, untoiling, 
Xor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

LUCIFER. 

What thy world is thou see'st. 
But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

CAIN. 

And those enormous creatiues, 
Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to tlie things we have pass'J, 
Resembhng somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
In magnitude and tetror ; taller than 
The cherub- guarded wails of Eden, v.ith 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence thcru 
And tusks projectmg like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they ? 

LUCIFER. 

That whicn 
The mammoth is in thy world ; — but these Ue 
By myriads imdemeath its surface. 

CAIN. 

But 

None on it ? 

LUCIFER. 

No : for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it useless — 
'T would be destroy'd so early. 

GAIN. 

But why war ? 

LUCIFER. 

You have forgotten the denunciation 
Which drove your race from Eden — war with all thmge 
And death to all things, and disease to most things 
And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the finaits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

CAIN. 

But animals — 
Did they too eat of it, that they must die ? 

LUCIFER. 

Your Maker told ye, they were made for you, 
As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to }T)ur ovm ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, ail had stood. 

CAIN. 

AIeis ! the hopeiess wretches . 
They too must share my sire's fate, hke his sons : 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple , 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowled§» 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowhdge at the price 
Of death— but knowhdge stiS : but what hiows m^a 



374 



BYRONS WORKS. 



LUCIJER. 

It may bo death leads to the highest knowledge ; 
And being of aL things the sole thing certain, 
At least leads to the surest science ; therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

CAIN. 

These dim reaims ! 
[ see them, but I know them not. 

LUCIFER. 

Because 
Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 't is something 
To know there are such realms. 

CAIN. 

We knew already 
That there was death. 

LUCIFER. 

But not what was beyond it. 

CAIN. 

Nor know I now. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou know'st that there is 
A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 

CAIN. 

But all 
Seems dim and shadowy. 

LUCIFER. 

Be content ; it will 
Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

CAIN. 

And yon immeasurable liquid space 

(3f glorious azure which floats on beyond us. 

Which looks like water, and which I should deem 

The river which flows out of Paradise 

Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 

And boundless and of an ethereal hue — 

What is it ? 

LUCIFER. 

There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 't is the phantasm of sxi ocean. 

CAIN. 

'T is like another world ; a liquid sun — 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? 

LUCIFER. 

Are its habitants, 
The pnst leviathans. 

CAIN. 

And yon immense 
Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden? 

LUCIFER. 

Eve« thy mother, best 
Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

CAIN. 

I fits seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
Had more of beau* * 

l^tJCIFER. 

Hast thou ne'er beheld him ? 



CAIN. 

Many of the same kind (at least so call'd), 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 

LUCIFER. 

Your father saw him not ? 

CAIN. 

No ; 't was my mother 
Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 

LUCIFER. 

Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons' wives 
Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange. 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 

CAIN. 

Thy precept comes too late : there Is no more 
For serpents to tempt woman to. 

LUCIFER. 

But there 
Are some things still which woman may tempt man to, 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
My counsel is a kind one : for 't is even 
Given chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 
'T will not be follow'd, so there 's little lost. 

CAIN. 

I understand not this. 

LUCIFER. 

The happier thou ! — 
The world and thou are still too young ! Thou thinkcst 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so ? 

CAIN. 

For crime I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

LUCIFER. 

First-born of the first man ! 
Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil. 
Of sorrow — and thou sufl^erest, are both Eden, 
In all its innocence, compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st be ; and that state again, 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust (which they 
In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth ! 

CAIN. 

And wherefore didst thou 
Lead me here only to inform me this ? 

LUCIFER. 

Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

CAIN. 

Yes : as being 
The road to happiness. 

LUCIFEK. 

If truth be so, 
Thou hast it. 

CAIN. 

Then my father's God did well 
When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

LUCIFER. 

But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance ©f evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
A part of all things. 

CAIN. 

Not of all tilings. iSo, 
I '11 not believe it — for I tliirst for good. 



CAIN. 375 


LUCIFER. 


This question of my father ; and he said, 


And who and what doth not? PVho covets evil 


Because this evil only was the path 


For Its own bitter sake ? — iVbne — nothing ! 't is 


To good. Strange good, that must arise from o«tt 


Tlie leaven of all life and lifelessness. 


Its deadly opposite ! I lately saw 


CAIN. 


A lamb stung by a reptile : the pooi suckling 


Within those glorious orbs which we behold, 


Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 


Distant and dazzling, and innumerable. 


And piteous bleating of its restless dam : 


Ere we came down into this phantom realm. 


My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them io 


111 cannot come ; they are too beautiful. 


The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretcn 


LUCIFER. 


Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 


Thou hast seen them from afar. 


The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 


CAIIf. 


Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 


And what of that? 


Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 


Distance can but diminish glory — they. 


Springs good ! 


When nearer, must be more ineffable. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


What didst thou answer ? 


Api)roach the things of earth most beautiful. 


CAIN. 


And judge their beauty near. 


Nothir.g : i9' 


CAIN. 


He is my father : but 1 thought, that 't were 


I have done this — 


A better portion for the animal 


The loveliest thmg I know is loveliest nearest. 


Never to have been stung at all^ tnan to 


LUCIFER. 


Purchase renewal of its little life 


Then there must be delusion.— What is that. 


With agonies unutterable, though 


Which being nearest to thine eyes, is still 


Dispell'd by antidotes. 


More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 


LUCIFER. 


CAIN. 


But as thou saidst. 


My sister Adah.— All the stars of heaven, 


Of all beloved things thou lovest her 


The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 


Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 


Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 


Unto thy children 


The hues of twihght — the sun's gorgeous coming — 


CAIN. 


His setting indescribable, which fills 


Most assuredly : 


My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 


What should I be without her ? 


Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 


LUCIFER. 


Along that western paradise of clouds — 


What am I? 


The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's voice — 


CAIN. 


The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love. 


Dost thou love nothing ? 


And mingles with the song of cherubim. 


LUCIFER. 


As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 


What does thy God love •» 


All these are nothing to my eyes and heart. 


CAIN. 


Like Adaii's face : I turn from earth and heaven 


All things, my father says ; but I confess 


To gaze on it. 


I see it not in their allotment here. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


'T is frail as fair mortality. 


And therefore thou canst not see if / love 


In the first dawn and bloom of young creation 


Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 


And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 


To which particular things must melt like snow. 


Can make its offspring; still it is delusion. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Snows ! what are they ? 


Vou think so, being not her brother. 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


Be happier in not knowmg 


Mortal ! 


What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 


My brotherhood 's with those who have no children. 


But bask beneath the clime which knows no vinter 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 


But dost thou not love something like thyself? 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


It may be that thine own shall be for me. 


And dost thou love thyself? 


But if thou dost possfess a beautiflil 


CAIN. 


Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 


Yes, but love mote 


Why art thou wretched? 


What makes my feelings more endurable. 


CAIN. 


And is more than myself, because I love it. 


Why do I exist ? 


LUCIFER. 


Why art thou ^vTetched ? why are all things so ? 


Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful. 


Even He who made us must be as the maker 


As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 


Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 


And when it ceases to be so, thy love 


Can surely never be the task of joy. 


Will cease, like any other appetite. 


And yet my sire says He 's omnipotent . 


CATjr. 


Then why is evil — He being good ? I ask'd 


Cease to be beautiful ! how can that beV 



sir, BYRONS WORKS. 


LCCIFER. 


I tuive thought, why recall a thought that {kepcaiseXy 


«^»th time. 


as agitated) — Spirit ! 


CAIS. 


Here we are in thy world ; speak not of mine. 


But time has past, and hitherto 


Thou hast shown me wonder? ; thou hasl shown me tliose 


Even Adata and my mother both are fair : 


]Mighty Pre- Adamites who walk'd the earth 


Not fair like Adah and the seraphim— 


Of which ours is the wreck : thou hast jwinted cm 


But very fair. 


^Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 


i,ucirzR. 


Is the dim and remote companion, m 


AD that must pasw away 


Infinity of life : thou hast sho\%-n me shadows 


In them and her. 


Of that existence with the dreaded name 


CAiy. 

I 'm sorry for it ; but 


Which my sire brought us^-ceath ; thou hast shown me 

much — 
But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells.- 
In his especial paradise — or thine : 
Where is it? 

LUCIFER. 


Caimot concei.-e my love for her the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
He who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 


LCCIFER. 


Here, and o'er all space. 


1 pity thee who lovest what must perish. 


CAIN. 


CAi:?. 


But ye 


And I thee who lov'st nothing. 


Have some allotted dweUing— as all thin«^ ; 


LUCIFER. 


Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 


And thy brother- 


All temporarv breathin? creatures their 


Sits he not near thy heart? 


Pccuhar element ; and things which have 


CAIX. 


Long ceased to breathe our breath have theu^, ihoa 


Why should he not ? 


say'st; 


LUCIFER. 


And the Jehovah and thyself have thine— 


Thy father loves him well — so does thy God. 


Ye do not dwell together ? 


cAiy. 


LUCIFER. 


And so do I. 


No, we reign 


LUCIFER. 


Together, but our dwellings are asunder. 


Tis well and meekly done. 


CAiy. 


cAiy. 


Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 


Meekly! 


An unity of purpose miirht make union 


LUCIFER. 


In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 


He is the second bom of fie^h, 


How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite. 


And is his mother's favourite. 


To separate? Are ye not as brethren ui 


CAIX. 


Your ^sence, and your nature, and your glory ? 


Let him keep 


LUCIFER. 


Her favoiff, since the serpent was the first 


Art thou net AbePs brother? 


To win it. 


cai:t. 


LUCIFER. 

And his father's? 


We are brethren, 
And so we shall remain ; but, were it not so. 


CATS. 

What is that 


Is spirit like to fiesh ? can it fall out ? 


Tu me ? should I not love that which all love ? 


Infinity with immortality ? 


LUCIFER. 


Jarring and turning space to misery— 


And the Jehovah— the indulgent Lord, 


For what? 

LUCIFER. 


And beauteous planter of barr'd Paradise— 
Hi^ loo, looks smilingly on AbeL 


To reign. 

CAiy. 


CAIW. 

f 


Did ye not tell me that 


1 

Ne'er saw Hmi, and 1 know not if He smiles. 


Ye are both eternal ? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea! 


LUCIFER. 


But vnu have seen his angels. 


CAiy. 


CAIX. 

Rarely. 

LOCfFER. 


And what I have seen, 


Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 


But 


LUCIFER. 


Sufhcicnfly to see they love your brother ; 


Ay. 


Hi^ sacnfices are acceptable. 


CAIN. 


CAiy. 


And cannot ye both reigTi then ? — is there not 


So l»e they ! wherefore speak to rae of this 7 


Enough ? — why should ye difier ? 


LUCIFER. 


LUCIFER. 


BeraiLs*^ 'jiou tiast thought of this ere now. 


We 6o<^ reign. 


CAIK. 


CAIN. 


And if 


But one of you makes eviL 



1 -l' 

I 

! 

CAI^\ 37 7 1 


LrCIFXR. 


Of worids and life, which I hold with him— No ! 


Which? 


I have a victor— true ; but no superior. 


CAiy. 


Homage He has fi-om all — but none firom me : 


Thou! for 


I battle it against him, as I battled 


If dioa canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 


In highest heaven. Through all eternity. 


LCCIFEPw 


And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 


And why not He who made ? / made ye not j 


And the interminable realms «f space. 


Ye die his creatures, and not mine. 


And the infinity of endless ag-js. 


CAI5. 


All, an, will I dispute ! And ivorld by worid, 


Then leave us 


And star by star, and universf'. by universe. 


His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 


Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 


Thv dwelling, or his dwelling. 


Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 


LUCIFER. 


WTiich it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd I 


I could show thee 


And what can quench our immortality. 


Both; but the thne will come thou shalt see one 


Our mutual and irrevocable hate ? 


Of them for evermore. 


He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 


CAIX. 


Edl ; but what wiH be the good He gives ? 


And why not now? 


Were I the victor, fus worl s would be dram'd 


LUCIFER. 


The only evil ones. And rou, ye new ' 


Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to gather 


And scarce-bom mortals, what have beer his gilts i 


The little I have shown thee mto calm 


To you already in your Uttle world ? 


And clear thought ; and Lhou wouldst go on aspiring 


CALJf. 


To the great double mysteries ! the two Principles I 


But few ; and some of those but bittt , 


And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 


LUCIFER. 


Dust ! hmit thy ambition, for to see 


Ba^it 


Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 


W^ith me, then, to thine earth, and try the resi 


CAiy. 


Of his celestial boons to ye and yours. 


And let me perish, so I see them ! 


Evil and good are thin^ in their own essence. 


LUCIFER. 


And not made good or evil by the giver ; 


There 


But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 


The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 


Evil springs from Aim, do not name it mine. 


But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 


TiQ ye know better its true fount ; and judge 


That sight is for the c ier state. 


Not by words, though of spirits, but the finals 


CAi:!f. 


Of your ejistence, such as it must be. 


Of death? 


One good gift has the fatal apple given — 


LUCIFER. 


Tour reason : — ^let it not be oversway'd 


That is the prelude. 


By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 


CAI>-. 


'Gainst all external sense and inward feekng ; 


Then I dread it less, 


Think and endure, — and form an inner w{ rid 


Now that I know it leads to something definite. 


In your own bosom — where the outward fails : 


LUCIFER. 


So shall you nearer be the spiritual 


And now I will convey thee to thy world. 


Nature, and war triumphant with your o^tn. 


Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 


[TTiey disappeM 


Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

CAIX. 

And to what end have I beheld these things 




ACT m. 


Which thou hast shown me ? 


LUCIFER. 


scent: I. 


Didst thou not require 




Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd, 


The Earth near Eden, as in Act 1. 


Taught thee to know thyself? 


Enter Cah?- and Adah. 


CAI5. 

Alas ! I seem 


ADAH. 


Nothing. 


Hash ! tread softly, Cain. 


LUCIFER. 


CAIX. 


And this should be the human sum 


I will ; but wherefore 7 


Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness ; 


ADAH. 


Bequeath that science to thy children, and 


Our Httle Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 


T will spare them many tortures. 


Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 


CAiy. 


CAIS. 


Haughty spirit ! 


Cvpress! 'tia 


rhou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proud, 


A gloomy tree, which looks as if it moum'd 


Bast a superior. 


O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou cboo&e !■ 


LUCIFER. 


For our child's canopy ? 


No ! By heaven, which He 


ADAH. 


Holds, and the abysF, and the immensity 

! ^ „=. — _ . — __ ___ 


Because its branches 

___„^. _ i 



Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
S"'ilting to shadow slumber. 

CAIK. 

Ay, the last — 
And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pMve incarnation, vying with 
The rose-leaves strewn beneath them. 

ADAH. 

And his lips, too, 
How beautifully parted ! No, you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over, 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'T is closed. 

CAIN. 

You have said well ; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
And smile, thou Uttle, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thinf, are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
rhou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown. 
Which were not thine nor mine ? But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles. 
And shining hds are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the c}-press which waves o'er them : 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what? Of Paradise !— Ay ! dream of it. 
My disinlierited boy ! 'T is but a dream ; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

ADAH. 

beat Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past ; 
\^^hy wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another 1 

CAIX. 

Where? 

ADAH. 

Here, or 
Where'er thou wilt: where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother. 
And ZiUah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 

CAIX. 

Yes^ death, too, is amongst the debts we owe her. 

ADAH. 

Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee hence. 
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds. 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him. 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
llatJi given thee back to us. 

CAIN. 

So soon 1 

ADAH. 

'T is scarcely 
Two nour« since ye departed two long hours 



To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

CAIN. 

And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

ADAH. 

Hardly hours. 

CAIN. 

The mind then hath capacity of time. 

And measures it by that which it beholds. 

Pleasing or painful, Uttle or almighty. 

I had beheld the immemorial works 

Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds : 

And, gazing on eternity, methought 

I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 

From its immensity ; but now I feel 

My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 

That I was nothing ! 

ADAH. 

Wherefore said he so ? 
Jehovah said not that. 

CAIN. 

No : he contents him 
With making us the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust -with glimpses of 
Eden and immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

ADAH. 

Thou know st— 
Even for our parents' error. 

CAIN. 

What is that 
To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 

ADAH. 

Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might Uve ! 

CAIN. 

Why, so say I — provided that one victim 

Might satiate the insatiable of life. 

And that our little rosy sleeper there 

Might never taste of death nor human sorrow. 

Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 

ADAH. 

How know we that some such atonement one day 
May not redeem our race ? 

CAIN. 

By sacrificing 
The harmless for the guilty? what atonement 
Were there ? why, lye are innocent : what have we 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mystGrious, nameless sin^- 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

ADAH. 

Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain ; thy words 
Sound impiwus in mine ears. 

CAIN. 

Then leave me I 

ADAH. 

NcYe* 
Though thy tSrod left thee. 

CAIN. 

Say, what have we here? 



CATN. 379 


ADAH. 


When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 


Two altars, which our brother Abel made 


And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 


During thine absence, whereupon to offer 


Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 


A sacrifice to God on thy return. 


And opens wdde his blue eyes upon thine. 


CAIN. 


To hail his father ; while his little foim 


And how knew he, that / would be so ready 


Flutters as vidng'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 


With the burnt-offerings, which he daily brings 


The childless cherubs well might envy thee 


With a meek brow, whose base humility 


The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 


Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 


As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 


To the Creator ? 


His heart will, and thine own too. 


ADAH. 


CAIN. 


Surely, 't is well done. 


Bless thee, boy i 


CAIN. 


If that a mortal blessing may avail thee. 


One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 


To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 


ADAH. 


ADAH. 


The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 


It shall. 


Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits ; 


Surely a father's blessmg may avert 


These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 


A reptile subtlety. 


Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Of that I doubt ; 


I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun, 


But bless him ne'ertheless. 


According to the curse: — must I do more? 


ADAH. 


For what should I be gentle ? for a war 


Our brother comes. 


With all the elements ere they will yield 


CAIN. 

Thy brother Abel. 


The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 


For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 


Enter Abel. 


Till I return to dust? If I am nothing— 


ABEL. 


For nothing shall I be a hypocrite. 


Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 


And seem well pleased with pain ? For what should I 


The peace of God be on thee ! 


Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 


CAIN. 


Expiate with what we all have undergone, 


Abel! hail! 


And to be more than expiated by 


ABEL. 


The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 


Our sister tells me that thou hast been wandering. 


Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 


In high communion with a spirit, far 


The germs of an eternal misery 


Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 


To myriads is within him ! better 't were 


We have seen and spoken with, like to our father ? 


T snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 


CAIN. 


The rocks, than let him live to 


No. 


ADAH. 


ABEL. 


Oh, my God! 


Why then commune with him ? he mu,y be 


Touch not the child— my child '. thy child ! Oh Cain ! 


A foe to the Most High. 


CAIN. 


CAIN. 


Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 


And friend to man. 


Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 


Has the Most High been so— if so you term him ? 


With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 


ABEL. 


ADAH. 


Term him ! your words are strange to-day, my brothe- 


Then, why so avdul in thy speech ? 


My sister Adah, leave us for a while — 


CAIN. 


We mean to sacrifice. 


I said, 


ADAH. 


»T were better that he ceased to live, than give 


Farewell, my Cam ; 


Life to so much of sorrow as he must 


But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 


Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 


And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 


That saying jars you, let us only say— 


To peace and holiness ! 


'T were better that he never had been bom. 


[Exit Adah, with hei chila 


ADAH. 


ABEL. 


Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the joys, 


Where hast thou been ' 


The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 


CAIN. 


And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 


I know not. 


[She goes to the child. 


ABEL. 


Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 


Nor what thou hast seen ? 


Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy. 


CAIN. 


How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 


The deafi 


For then we are all ahke ; is 't not so, Cain ? 


The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent. 


Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 


The overpowering mysteries of space— 


Reflected in each other ; as they are 


The innumerable worlds that were and are^- 


In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 


A whirlwind of such overwhelming things. 





GO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 

ABEL. 

Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light— 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean ? 

CAIN. 

It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

ABEL. 

Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together. 

CAIN. 

Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

ABEL. 

Both well, I hope. 

CAIN. 

But thee the better : I care not for that ; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am : 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
At least v\'ithout me. 

ABEL. 

Brother, I should ill 
Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If as my elder I revered thee not. 
And m the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 't is thy place. 

CAIN. 

But I have ne'er 
Asserted it. 

ABEL. 

Tlie more my grief; I pray thee 
To do so now ; thy soul seems labouring m 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

CAIN. 

No; 
Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
Knew I what cahn was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

ABEL. 

Nei'Jier ; we must perform our task together, 
fepirm me not. 

CAIN. 

If it must be so well, then, 

What shall I do? 

ABEL. 

Choose one of those two altars. 

CAIN. 

Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

ABEL. 

Choose thou ! 

CAIN. 

I have chosen. 

ABEL. 

'T is the highest, 
And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine oflermgs. 

CAIN. 

Where are thine ? 

ABEL. 

Behold them here — 
fhe ^fltlings of the flock, and fat thereof— 



A shepherd's humble offering. 

CAIN. 

I have no flocks : 
I am a uUer of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 

[He gathers fruits^ 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 

[They dress their altars, and kindle aflame upon 
them. 

ABEL. 

My brother, as the elder, offer first 

Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

CAIN. 

No — ^I am new to this ; lead thou the way. 
And I vvdll follow — as I may. 

ABEL (kneeling). 

Oh God ! 
Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us. 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been. 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which i-s thy dehght, as to 
Accord a pardon hke a paradise, 
Compared with our gi-eat crimes : — Sole Lord of lighi , 
Of good, and glory, and eternity ! 
Without whom all were evil, and \vith whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill' d — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
First of the first-bom flocks — an offering. 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ? — ^but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bo^ving his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

CAIN [standing erect during this speech f 
Spirit ! whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Sho-wn in the exemption of thy deeds from evii ; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And it may be with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works : 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers. 
Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars. 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lovest blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smoke* 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service, 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
Or if the sweet and blooming finiits of earth. 
And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
I spread them on, now offers in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffer'd in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favour, 
Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 
He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothuig 
Which must be won by kneeUng : if he 's evil. 
Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st, — 



For what can he oppose ? If he be good, 
Strike him, or spare him, as thou vvilt ! since all 
Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 
And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
Not being omnipotent, or fit to judge 
Onmipotence, but merely to endure 
Its mandate, which thus far I have endured. 

[Thejire upon the altar 0/ Abel kindles into a 
column of the brightest Jlame^ and ascends 
to heaven; while a whirlwind throws down 
the attar of Cain, and scatters the fruits 
abroad upon the earth. 

ABEL (kneeling). 
Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah 's wroth with thee ! 

CAIN. 

Why SO? 

ABEL. 

Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

CAIN. 

From earth they came, to earth let them return ; 
Their seed mil bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
Thy burnt flesh-offering prospers better ; see 
How heaven licks up the flames, when tnick with blood ! 

ABEL. 

Think not upon my offering's acceptance. 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

CAIN. 

I will build no more altars, 
Nor suff*er any. — 

ABEL (rising). 
Cain ! what meanest thou ? 

CAIN. 

To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of the clouds. 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull prayers — 
Thine altar, with iis blood of lambs and kids, 
WTiich fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 

ABEL {opposing him). 
Thou shalt not: — add not impious works to impious 
Words ! let that altar stand — 't is hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

CAIN. 

ms! 

His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
The fiimes of scorching flesh and smoking blood. 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead ofl'spring ? or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

ABEL. 

Brother, give back ! thou shalt not touch my altar 
With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it. 
To try anotlier sacrifice, 't is thine. 

CAIN. 

Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 

ABEL. 

What meanest thou ? 



Give way! thy God loves blood ! — then look to it:- 
Give wav, ere he hath more ! 
2L 



ABEL. 

In his great name, 
I stand between thee and the shrine wliich hath 
Had his acceptance. 

CAIN. 

If thou lov'st thyself. 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 

Its native soU : — else 

ABEL {opposing him). 

1 love God far more 
Than Ufe. 

CAIN {striking him with a brand, on the temples^ whiu 
he snatches from the altar). 
Then take thy life unto thy God, 
Since he loves lives. 

ABEL (falls). 

What hast thoa done, my brolher? 

CAIN. 

Brother! 

ABEL. 

Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 
Forgive hb slayer, for he knew not what 
He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; auu tet 

Poor Zillah 

CAIN {after a moment'' s stupefaction). 

My hand ! 't is all red, and %vith — 
What? 

[A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 
Where am I ? alone ! Where 's Abel ? where 
Cain? Can it be that I am he? My brother. 
Awake ! — why Uest thou so on the green earth? 
'Tis not the hour of slumber: — why so pale? 

What hast thou ? thou wert full of life this morn : 

Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 

Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 

Wouldst thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 

And only done to daunt me : — 'twas a blow — 

And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 

Why, so — that's well! — thou breath'st! breathe u^toh 

me! 
Oh, God! Oh, God! 

ABEL {very faintly). 

W hat 's he who speaks of God ? 

CAIN. 

Thy murderer. 

ABEL. 

Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 
Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel cZie?. 

CAIN. 

And I none ! Who makes me brotlierless ? 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His Ups, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ! 
And yet I feel it not. — His heart ! — his heart ' — 

Let me see, doth it beat? — methinks No I — no : 

This is a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth s^^dms round me : — what is this ? — 't is wei ; 
[Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at ii 
And yet there are no dew=! ! 'T is blood — my bloovi- • 
My brother's and my own ; and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with hfe, 
Since I have taken Ufe from my o^vn flesh ? 
But he cannot be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
No ; he will wake : then let me watch bv him 



382 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly !— he hath spoken to me since— 
What shall I sav to him ?— ^ly brother !— No ; 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet— yet— speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillah. 

ZILLAH. 

1 heard a heavy sound : what can it be ? 

'T is Cain; and watching by my husband. What 

Dost ihou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh ! heaven ! 

What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No ! no .' 

It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 

Abel ! what 's this !— who hath done this ? He moves 

not ; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop down from mine 
With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit ZiLLAH calling on her parenis, etc. 
CAIN {solus). 
And who hath brought him there ? — ^I — ^who abhor 
The name of death so deeply, that the thought 
Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and given 
IVIy brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden' d me : — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zixlah. 

ADAM. 

A voice of woe from Zillah brings me here. — 
What do I see ?— 'T is true !— My son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 

EVE. 

Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
^\xe in my heart. My best beloved, Abel • 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 

ADAM. 

Who, 
Or what hath done this deed ? — speak, Cain, since thou 
Wert present : was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

EVE. 

Ah ! a Uvid light 
tJreaks through, as trom a thunder-cloud ! yon brand. 
Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar. 
And black with smoke, ajad red with 

ADAM. 

Speak, my son ! 
S(.edk, and assure us, uTCtcned as we are, 
That we are not more miserable still. 

ADAH. 

*»i>eak. Cain * and say it was not ihou ! 

ETE. 

It was. 



I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

ADAH. 

Mother, thou dost him wrong- 
Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

EVE. 

Hear, Jeho^ ih 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
May all his days be desolate ! INIay 

ADAH. 

Hold! 
Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

EVE. 

He hath left thee no brother — 
ZUlah no husband — me no son ! — for this 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death ! 

Why didst thou not take Tne, who first incurr'd thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now ? 

ADAM. 

Eve ! let not this, 
Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, tliat we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

EVE {pointing to Cain). 
His will ! the will of yon incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the eartn 
To strew it with the dead. May aU the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us, 
From Eden, till his children do by liim 
As he did by his brother ! INIay tlie swords 
And v,-ing3 of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood, as he 
Stoops do\^'n to stain them with his raging lip ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain^ 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire ' 
May the grass ^-ither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God ' 

[EtU EvB., 

ADAM. 

Cain ! get thee forth ; we dwell no more together. 
Depart ! and leave the dead to me — I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must n.eet more. 

ADAH. 

Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do not 
Add thy deen curse io Eve's upon his bead ' 



CAIN. 



38: 



ADAM. 

cursn Viim not ; his spirit be his curse, 
ome, Zillah ! 

ZIXLAH. 

I must watch my husband's corse. 

ADAM. 

^ e will return again, when he is gone 
VTho hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah! 

ZILLAH. 

Yet one kiss on von pale clay, 
And those lips once so warm — ^my heart ! my heart ! 
[Exeunt Adam and Zillah, weeping. 

ADAH. 

Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. I am ready ; 

So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 

And you his sister. Ere the sun declmes 

Let us depart, nor wauk tJie wilderness 

Cnder the cloud of ni^ht, — ^Nay, speak to me, 

To me — thxTie own. 

CAIN. 

Leave me I 

ADAH. 

Why, all have left thee. 

CAIX. 

And wherefore liogerest thou ? Dost thou not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

ADAH. 

I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — ^it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from xcxtian exdcams^ 
Cain! Cain! 

ADAH. 

Hear'st thou that voice ? 
T^ie Voice xmihin, 
Cain! Cain! 

ADAH. 

It soundeth like an angel's tone. 
Enter the Ajvgel of the Lord. 

AS6EL. 

Where is thy brother Abel? 

CAIN. 

Am I then 
My Isrother's keeper ? 

ANREL. 

Cam ! what hast thou done ? 
The voice of thy slain brothers blood cries out, 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord I — Now art thou 
Cursed from the earth, which opened late her mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shall till the ground, it shall not 
Field thee her strength ; a frigitive shall thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 

ADAH, 

This punishment is more than he can bear. 
Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth. 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
A fiagL Ve and vagabond on earth, 
T will come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

CAIN. 

Would they could ! but who are thev , 



Shall slay me ? where are these on the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled ? 

ANGEL. 

Thou hast slain thy brother, 
And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 

ADAH. 

Angel of light ! be merciful, nor say 

That this poor aching breast now nourishes 

A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 

ANGEL. 

Then he would but be what his father is. 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmear'd witJi tlood ? 
The fratricide might well engender pcirricides. — 
But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeLh Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 

CAIN. 

Wnat 
Wouldst thou with me ? 

ANGEL. 

To mark upon thy brow 
Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 

CAIN. 

Xo, let rae die ! 

ANGEL. 

It must not be. 
\The Angel sets Vie mark on Caix's fcrmo, 

CAIN. 

It burns 
My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 

ANGEL. 

Stem hast thou been and stubborn from the womb, 
As the ground thou must henceforth tiU ; but he 
Thou slew'st was geiitle as the flocks he tended. 

CAIN. 

After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 

Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 

The serpent, and my sire sliU moum'd for Eden. 

That which I azn, I am ; I did not seek 

For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 

With my own death redeem him from the diist — 

And why not so ? let him return to day. 

And I he ghastly ! so shall be restored 

By God the life to him he loved j and taken 

From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

ANGEL. 

^\^lo shall heal murder ? what is done is done. 

Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be tliy deeds 

Unlike the last ! [7%« Angel disappears, 

ADAH. 

He 's gone, let us go forth ; 
I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

CAIN. 

Ah ! Uttle knows he what he weeps for ' 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ' 
But the four livers ' would not cleanse mv souL 
Think'st thou ray boy will bear to look on me ? 

ADAH. 

If I thought that he would not, I would — 



1 The "four rivers" which flowed round Eden, ana cooav 
qaen'Jy the oriy waters withT» hich Cain was aciuaicted upev 
tie earth. 



3&4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAIN {interrupting her). 



No, 



No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

ADAH. 

f will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
I iCt us depart together. 

CAIN. 

Oh ! thou dead 
And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art, 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell! 
I must not, dare not, touch what I have made thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own. 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 
For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But who hath dug that grave? Oh, earth! Oh, earth! 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops down and kisses the body of Abel. 



ADAH. 

A dreary, and an early doom, my brother, 
Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them , 
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn hke me. 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

CAIN. 

Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
'T is the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

ADAH. 

Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may our God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 

CAIN. 

And he who heth there was childless. 

I have dried the fountain of a gentle race. 

Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 

And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine. 

Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 

OAbel! 

ADAH. 

Peace be with him ! 

CAIN. 



But with me !- 



[Exeunt, 



^JBtvntv; or, sriie Ktitierttatice; 

A TRAGEDY. 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS liOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 
THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 



The following drama is taken entirely from the " Ger- 
man's Tale, Kruitzner,''"' published many years ago in 
^^ Leeh Canterbury Tales f written (I beheve) by two 
Msters, of whom one furnished only this story and 
another, both of which are considered superior to the 
remainder of the collection. I have adopted the char- 
acters, plan, and even the language, of many parts of 
this story. Some of the characters are modified or 
altered, a few of the names changed, and one character 
(Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself: but in the rest 
ihe original is chiefly followed. When I was young 
{a}.out fourteen,! think) I first read this tale, which 
mdde a deep impression upon me ; and may, indeed, be 
ndid to contain the germ of much that I have since 
written. 1 am not sure that it ever was very popular ; or 
at any rate its popularity has since been eclipsed by that 
of Olhei great writers in the same department. But I 
have generally found that those who had read it, agreed 
with me in their estimate of the singular power of mirid 
and conception which it de\e]opes. I sh&vtid also add 



conception^ rather than execution ; for the story might, 
perhaps, have been more developed with greater advan- 
tage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with mine 
upon this story, I could mention some very high names ; 
but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use ; for every 
one must judge according to their ovm feelings. I 
merely refer the reader to the original story, that he may 
see to what extent I have borrowed fi-om it ; and am not 
unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure in 
perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its 
contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 
1815 (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen 
years old, called " Ulric and Ilvina,^'' which I had sense 
enough to burn), and had nearly complited an act, 
when I v/as intRrrupted by circumstances Phis is some- 
where amongst my papers in England j b -■' - " ' as not 

been found, I have re-written the first, — -d the 

subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor m any shape 
adapted, for the stage. 

February, 1822. 



WERNER. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



ULPac. Eric. 

Strale>-heim. Arxheim. 
Idessteix. Meister. 

Gabor. Rocolph. 

Fritz. Ludwig. 

WOMEN. 

Josephine. 

Ida Strale>-heim. 



Scene — partly on the frontier of Sflesia, and partly in 
Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Time — the close of the thirty years' war. 



WERXER. 



ACT* I. 

SCEXE I. 

The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on the 
mrtliem. Frontier of Silesia — the Night tempestuous. 
VTers^er and Josephixe his icife. 

JOSEPHIS^E. 

My love, be calmer ! 

werxer. 
I am calm. 

JOSEPHIXE. 

To me — 
^es, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
And nr one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his he^rt is at rest. 
Were it a gcirden, I should deem thee happv, 
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower j 
But here ! 

wt:r>-er. 
'T is chUl ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ah, no ! 

WEPvXER {smiling). 
Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 

JOSEPHIXE. 

I would 
Have it a healthful current. 

WERXER. 

Let it flow 
Until 't IS spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 

JOSEPHIXE. 

And am I nothing in thy heart ? 

WERXER. 

AU— all. 

JOSEPHIXE.. 

Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine ? 

wt;rxePv {approaching her slowly). 
But for thee I had been — no matter what, 
But much of good and evil ; what I am, 
rhou knowest ; what I might or should have been, 

2 1 2 54 



Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werxer vxdks on abruptly, and then ap 
proaches Josephine. 

The storm of the night. 
Perhaps, affects me : I 'm a thing of feehngs. 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love 
In watching me. 

J0SEPHI5E. 

To see thee well is much — 
To see thee happy 

WERXER. 

Where hast thou seen such ? 
Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

JOSEPHIXE. 

But think 
How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting vrind and heavy rain, 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth. 
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

WERXZR. 

And that 's not the worst : who cares 
For chambers ? rest is alL The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the \vind howls round tlieni, and 
The dull cmd dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 

JOSEPHIXE. 

And art thou not now shelter'd from them all / 

WEP.XER. 

Yes — and from these alone. 

JOSEPHIXE. 

And that is somethirg 

WERXER. 

True — to a peasant, 

JOSEPHIXE. 

Should the nobly bom 
Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early deUcacy render more 
Xeedful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 

WERXER. 

It is not that, thou know'st it is not : we 
Have borne all this, I 'U not say patiently, 
Except in thee — ^but we have borne it. 

JOSEPHIXE. 

Well ! 

WERX'ER. 

Something beyond our outward sufferings ( though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls ) 
Hath stung me oft, cuid, more than ever, now 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted not alone my strength, but means. 
And leaves us, — no ! this is beyond me ! but 
For this I had been happy— =-f7jou been happv — 
The splendour of my rank sustain' d — ^my name— 
My father's name — been still upheld ; and, more 

Than those 

JOSEPHIXE {abruptly). 
My son — our son — our TJlnc. 
, Been clasp'd again in these lon§-emply arms. 



386 BYRON'S WORKS. 


And all a moOier's hunger satisfied. 


By the snares of this avaricioMs fiend ; — 


Twelve years ! he was but eight then : beautiful 


How do I know he hath not track'd us here ' 


He was, and beautiful he must be now. 


JOSEPHINE. 


My UL-ic ! my adored ! 


He d >ps not know thy person ; and his spies. 


WERNER. 


Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hambuish. 


I have been full oft 


Our unexpected journey, and this change 


The chase of fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 


Of name, leave all discovery far behind : 


My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 


None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 


Sick, poor, and lonely. 


WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Save what we seem ! save what we are — sick begg <rs 


Lonely ! my dear husband ? 


Even to our very hopes. Ha ! ha ! 


WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Or worse — mvolving all I love, in this 


Alas! 


Far worse man soUtude. Alone^ I had died, 


That bitter laugh I 


And all been over in a nameless grave. 


WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Who would read in this form 


And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 


The high soul of the son of a long line ? 


Comfort! We have struggled long ; and they who strive 


IVho^ in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 


With fortune win or weary her at last. 


Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 


So that they find the goal, or cease to feel 


Of rank and ancestry ; in this worn cheek. 


Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy. 


And famine-hoUow'd brow, the lord of halls, 


WERNER. 


Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 


We were in sight of him, of every thing 


JOSEPHINE. 


Which could bring compensation for past sorrow — 


You 


And to be baffled thus ! 


Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things. 


JOSEPHINE. 


My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 


We are not baffled. 


The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Are we not pennyless ? 


An exile's daughter with an outcast son 


JOSEPHINE. 


Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 


We ne'er were wealthy. 


To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 


WERNER. 


Your father's house was noble, though decay'd ; 


But I was born to wealth, and rank, and power ; 


And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 


Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them. 


JOSEPHINE. 


And forfeited them by my lather's wrath. 


Your father did not tliink so, though 't was noble ; 


In my o'er-fervent youth; but for the abuse 


But had my birth been all my claim to match 


Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 


With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 


Left the path open, yet not without snares. 


WERNER. 


This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 


And what is that in thine eyes ? 


Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 


JOSEPHINE. 


The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me, 


AU which it 


Become the master of my rights, and lord 


Has done in our behalf,— nothing. 


Of that which lifts him up to princes in 


WERNER. 


Dominion and domain. 


How, — nothing 'i 


JOSEPHINE 


JOSEPHINE. 


Who know-s ? our son 


Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 


May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 


Thy heart firom the beginning : but for this, 


Even now uphold thy rights for thee ! 


We had not felt our poverty, but as 


WERNER. 


Millions of myi-iads feel it, cheerfully ; 


'T is hopeless. 


But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers. 


Smce his strange disappearance from my father's, 


Thou might'st have eam'd thy bread as thousands earn \\ 


Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 


Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 


Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 


Or other cmc means, to mend thy fortunes. 


I parted mth him to his grandsire, on 


WERNER {ironically). 


The promise that his anger would stop short 


And been an Hanseatic burgher ? Excellent ! 


Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 


JOSEPHINE. 


To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 


Whate'er thou might'st have been, to me thou art. 


Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 


What no state, high or low, can ever change. 


JOSEPHINE. 


My heart's first choice ;— which chose thee, knowing 


t must hope better still,— at least we have yet 


neither 


Bafflf.d the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 


Thy birth, thy hopes,thy pride; nought, save thy sorrows- 


WERNER. 


While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 


We should have done, but for this fatal sickness, 


When they end, let mine end with them, or thee ! 


More fatal than a mortal malady. 


WERNER. 


Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace: 


My better angel ! such as I have ever found thee ; 


Eiven nqw I feel my spirit girt about 


This rashness, or this weakness of my temper. 





WERNER. 3S T 


Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 


Sm-geon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon), 


Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my o\ra nature 


And has done miracles i' the way of business. 


In youth was such as to umnake an empire, 


Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 


Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 


WERNER. 


Chasten'd, subdued, outworn, and taught to know 


To yours ? 


Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 


JOSEPHINE. 


Trust me, when, in my two- and- twentieth spring, 


Oh, yes, we are, but distantly. 


Aly father barr'd me from my father's house, 


[Aside to Werner. 


■ The last "isole scion of a thousand sires 


Cannot you himnour the dull gossip, till 


(For I was then the last), it hurt me less 


We learn his purpose ? 


Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 


IDENSTEIN. 


Excluded in their innocence from what 


WeU, T 'm glad of that ; 


My faults deserved exclusion ; although then 


I thought so aU along ; such natural yearnings 


My passions were all hving serpents, and 


Play'd round my heart — blood is not water, cousin ; 


T^^-i^ed like the gorgon's round me. 


And so let 's have some wine, and drink unto 


[A knocking is heard. 


Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 


JOSEPHINE. 


Friends. 


Hark! 


WERNER. 


WERNER, 


You appear to have drunk enough akeady, 


A knocking! 


And if you had not, I 've no wine to offer, 


JOSEPHINE. 


Else it were yours ; but this you know, or should know ■ 


Who can it be at this lone hour ? we have 


You see I am poor and sick, and will not see 


Few visiters. 


That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 


WERNER. 


What brings you here ? 


And poverty hath none. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Save those who come to make it poorer still. 


Why, what should bring me here ? 


Well, I am prepared. 


WERNER. 


[Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to 
search for some weapon. 


I know not, though I think that I could guess 
That which will send you hence. 


JOSEPHINE. 




Oh I do not look so. I 


JOSEPHINE {aside). 


Will to the door ; it cannot be of import 


Patience, dear Wcmci ' 


In this lone spot of wintry desolation — 
The very desert saves man from mankind. 


IDENSTEIN. 

You don't know what has happen'd, then? 


[She goes to the door. 


JOSEPHINE. 

How should we / 


Enter Iden stein, 


IDENSTEIN. 


IDENSTEIN. 


The river has o'erflow'd. 


A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 


JOSEPHINE. 


And worthy what 's your name, my friend ? 


Alas ! we have known 


WERNER. 


That to our sorrow, for these five days, since 


Are you 


It keeps us here. 


Not afraid to demand it ? 


IDENSTEIN. 


IDENSTEIN. 


But what you don't know is. 


Not afraid ! 


That a great personage, who fain would cross 


Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 


Against the stream, and tlu-ee postilions' wishes. 


I ask'd for somethmg better than your name, 


Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 


By the face you put on it. 


A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 


WERNER. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Better, sir ? 


Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 


IDENSTEIN. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Better or worse, like matrimony, what 


Yes, of the monkev 


Shall I say more ? You have been a guest this month 


And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 


Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure. 


We know not if his excellency 's dead 


His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 


Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown. 


And rats these twelve years— but 't is still a palace) - 


As it is fit that m.en in office should be ^ 


I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 


But, what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 


We do not know your name. 


Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants . 


WERNER. 


And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller. 


My name is Wemei 


Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him frcm 


IDENSTEIN. 


The whirling river, have sent on to crava 


A goodly name, a very worthy name, 


A lodging, or a grave, according as 


As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board ; 


It ma/ turn out with the five or dead bod\ 


i have a cousin in the lazaretto 


JOS^'PHiyE. 


Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 


And whfi^e w^^l yo" receive hiin ? We, I ?^ pc 


The same. He is an officer of trust, 


If we can be ot service— sav the word. 


j 



3^6 BYROXS 


WORKS. 


IDEXSTEIX. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Here ! no , but in the prince's own apartment, 


But are you sure 


As fits a noble guest : 't is damp, no doubt, 


His excellency but his name, what is it? 


Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; 


GABOR. 


Rut then he comes from a much damper place. 


I do not know. 


So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be 


IDENSTEIN. 


Still Uable to cold — and if not, why 


And yet you saved his life. 


He '11 be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertlieless, 


GABOR. 


I have order'd fire and all appliances 


I help'd my friend to do so. 


To be got ready for the worst— that is. 


IDENSTEIN. 


[n case he should survive. 


Well, that 's strange 


JOSEPHINE. 


To save a man's life whom you do not know. 


Poor gentleman ! 


GABOR. 


I hope he will, with all my heart. 


Not so ; for there are some I know .so well, 


WERNER. 


I scarce should give myself the trouble. 


Intendant, 


IDENSTEIN. 


Have you not leam'd his name ? My Josephine, 


Pray 


[Aside to his wife. 


Good friend, and w-ho may you be ? 


Retire— I '11 sift this <bol. [Exit Josephine. 


GABOR. 


IDENSTEIN. 


By my family, 


His name ? oh Lord ! 


Hungarian. 


Wlio knows if he hath now a name or no ; 


IDENSTEIN. 


'T is time enough to ask it when he 's able 


Which is caU'd ? 


To give an answer, or if not, to put 


GAEOR. 


His heir's upon his epitaph. INIethought, 


It matters little. 


Just now you chid me for demanding names? 

WERNER. 


IDENSTEIA' (aside). 


I think that aU the world are gro^Ti anon}Tnous, 


True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 


Since no one cares to tell me what he 's call'd! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 


E titer Gab OR. 


GABOR. 




Sufficient. 


GABOR. 




If I intrude, I crave 


IDENSTEIN. 

How many ? 


IDENSTEIN. 


GAEOR. 


Oh ! no intrusion ! 


I did not count them. 


•I'his is the palace ; this a stranger like 


We came up by mere accident, and just 


Fourself ; I pray you make yourself at home: 


In time to drag him through his carriage window. 


But where 's his excellency, and how fares he ? 


IDENSTEIN. 


GAEOR. 


Well, what would I give to save a great man ! 

No doubt you 'U have a swinging sum as recompense. 

GABOPi. 


Wctly and wearily, but out of peril ; 

He paused to change his garments in a cottage 


(Where I dofF'd mine for these, and came on hither). 


Perhaps. 

IDENSTEIN. 


And h as almost recover'd from his drenching. 


Is wUl be here anon. 


Now, how much do you reckon on ? 


IDENSTEIN. 


GABOR. 


What ho, there ! bustle ! 


I have not yet put up myself to sale : 


Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad ! 


In the mean time, my best reward would be 


[Gives directions to different servants who enter. 


A glass of your Hochheimer, a green glass, 


A nobleman sleeps here to-night— see that 


Wreathed vsith rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 


All is in order in the damask chamber- 


0'erflo%ving with the oldest of your vintage ; 


Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 


For which I promise you, m case you e'er 


And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 


Run hazard of being dro^vn'd (although I own 


Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for. 


It seems, of all deaths, the least hkely for you). 


To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 


I 'U pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend. 


Within the palace precincts, since his liighness 


And think, for every bumper I shall quaff. 


Left it some dozen years ago. And then 


A wave the less may roll above your head. 


His excellency will sup, doubtless ? 


IDENSTEIN [aside). 


GAEOR. 


I don't much like this fellow — close and dry 


Faith! 


He seems, two things which suit me not ; however, 


I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 


Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 


Would please him better than the table, after 


I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 


His sor^kiii* in your river : but for fear 


[Exit Idenstein. 


Four vianas should be thrown away, I mean 


GABOR (to Werner.) 


To 5UP myself, and have a friend without 


This master of the ceremonies is 


Who will do honour to your good cheer with 


The intendant of the palace, I presume. 


A trave''e.'s appetite. 


'Tis a fine building, but decay'd. 



WERNER. 389 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


The apartment 


I was. 


Design'd for him you rescued, will be found 


GABOR. 


In fitter order for a sickly guest. 


You look one still. All soldiers are 


GABOR. 


Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 


I wonder then you occupied it not, 


Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 


For you seem delicate in health. 


(While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when 


WERNER {quickly). 


A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 


Sir! 


The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 


GABOR. 


The spark v/hich lights the matchlock, we are brethren. 


Pray 


You are poor and sickly — I am not rich, but healthy , 


Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you? 


I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 


WERNER. 


You seem devoid of this — ^wilt share it ? 


Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 


[Gab OR pulh out his purse. 


GABOR. 


WERNER. 


And that 's the reason I would have us less so ,! 


Who 


[ thought our bustling guest without had said 


Told you I was a beggar ? 


You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart 


GABOR. 


Of me and my companions. 


You yourself. 


WERNER. 


In saying you were a soldier during peace time. 


Very true. 


WERNER {looking at him with suspicion). 


GABOR. 


You know me not ? 


Then, as we never met before, and never, 


GABOR. 


It may be, may again encounter, why, 


I know no man, not even 


I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 


Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 


(At least to me) by asking you to share 


Beheld, tUl half an hour since ? 


The fare of my companions and myself. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Sir, I thank you. 


Pray, pardon me ; my health 


Your offer 's noble, were it to a friend, 


GABOR. 


And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 


Even as you please. 


Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. 


L have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 


I am a beggar in all save his trade. 


In bearing. 


And when I beg of any one, it shall be 


WERNER. 


Of him who was the first to offer what 


I have also served, and can 


Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. 


Requite a soldier's greeting. 


[Exit Werth-ev. 


GABOR. 


GABOR {solus). 


In what service? 


A goodly fellow, by his looks, though worn, 


The Imperial? 


As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure. 


WERNER {quickly^ and then interrupting himself). " 


Which tear life out of us before our time : 


I commanded — no — I mean 


I scarce know which most quickly ; but he seems 


I served ; but it is many years ago, 


To have seen better days, as who has not 


- When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 


Who has seen yesterday? — But here approaches 


The Austrian. 


Our sage intendant, with the wme ; however. 


GABOR. 


For the cup's sake, I '11 bear the cup-bearer. 


Well, that's over, now, and peace 




Has turn'd tw/j: e thousand gallant hearts adrift 


Enter Idenstein. 


To hve a.' Miey ^est may : and, to say truth. 


'T is here ! the supernaculum ! twenty }iears 


Some take the shortest. 


Of age, if 't is a day. 


WERNER. 


GABOR. 


What is that? 


Which epoch makes 


GABOR. 


Young women and old wine, and 't is great pity 


Whate'er 


Of two such excellent things, increase of years. 


They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 


Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 


Lugatia's woo^ are tenanted by bands 


Fill full — Here 's to our hostess — your fair wife. 


Of the late troups, who levy on the country 


[Takes the gtasf 


Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep 


IDENSTEIN. 


Their castlft walls — beyond them 't is but doubtful 


Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal 


Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 


To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you 


My comfort is that, wander where I may, 


Nevertheless. 


I 've little left to lose now. 


GABOR. 


WERNER. 


Is not the lovely woman 


And I — noth'mg. 


I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 


GABCR. 


An air, and port, and eye, which would have bette* 


That 's harder still. You say you were a soldier. 


Beseem'd this palace in its brightest davs 



300 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment), return'd my salutation — 
lo not the same your spouse ? 

IDENSTDIX. 

I would she were ! 
But you 're mistaken — that 's the stranger's wife. 

GABOR. 

And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
Though time halh touch'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And that 
Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty, 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared — but never mind ! 

GABOR. 

I don't. But who 
May be this stranger. He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

IDENSTEIN. 

There I differ. 
He 's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name (and that I only leam'd 
To-night), I know not. 

GABOR. 

But how came he here ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

In a most miserable old caleche, 

About a month since, and immediately 

Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 

GABOR. 

Tender and true ! — but why ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why, what is life 
Without a living ? He has not a stiver. 

GABOR. 

In that case, I much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's true ; but pity, as you know, does make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time. 
Which paid their way up to the present hour, 
And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
I'hey served to air them, at ihe least as long 
As they could pay for fire-wood. 

GABOR. 

Poor souls ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Ay, 

tAi ceding poor. 

GABOR. 

And yet unused to poverty, 
F 1 rnisrancft not. Whither were they going ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh ' Heaven knows where, unless to heaven itself. 
Soiiio, days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
Foi Werner. 

GABOR. 

Werner ! I have heard the name, 
Hui If may be a feign'd one. 



IDrNSTEIN. 

Like enough ! 
But hark ! a noise of wlieels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency 's come. 
I must be at my post : will you not join me, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door ? 

GABOR, 

I dragg'd him 
From out that carriage when he would have given 
His barony or county to repel 
The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then, 
ShaJting their dripping ears upon the shore. 
All roaring, "Help !" but offering none ; and as 
For duty (as you call it) I did mine then, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him hero ' 

IDENSTEIN. 

/ cringe !— but I shall lose the opportunity — 
Plague take it ! he '11 be here, and I not there ! 

[Exit Idenstein, hastily. 
Re-enter Werner. 
WERNER {to himself). 
I heard a noise of wheels and voices. How 
Ail sounds now jar me ! 

{Perceiving Ga'bor). Still here! Is he not 
A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer, 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
For friends are slow at such. 

GABOR. 

You seem rapt, 
And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
Or count (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be), for whom this desolate village, and 
Its lone inhabitants, show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

IDENSTEIN {ydthout). 

This way — 
This way, your excellence : — have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — pray take my arm, my lord ! 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants, 
partly his ovm, and partly retainers of the domain of 
which Idenstein is Intendant. 
stralenheim. 
I 'U rest me here a moment. 

IDENSTEIN {to the Servants). 

Oh ! a chair ! 

Instantly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down. 

WERNER {aside). 

'T is he ! 

stralenheim. 

I 'm better now. 
Who are these strangers ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Please you, my good lord, 
One says he is no stranger. 

WERNER {aloud and hastily). 

TVho says that ? 
\They look at him with surprise. 



WERNER. 



391 



IDENSTEIN. 

Why, no one spoke of you^ or to you ! — ^but 

Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 

To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 

GABOR. 

I seek not to disturb 
His noble memory. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I apprehend 
This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state, when I was succour'd, must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

IDENSTEIN. 

He ! — no, my lord ! he rather wants for rescue 
Than can afford it. 'T is a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Methought 
That there were two. 

GABOR. 

There were, in company ; 
But, m the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Where is he ? 

AN ATTENDANT. 

My lord, he tarried in the cottage, where 
Your excellency rested for an hour. 
And said he would be here to-morrow. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Till 
That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
And then 

GABOR. 

I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 

STRALENHEIM 

{Fixing his eyes upon Werner, then aside). 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
'T is twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes ; and, though my agents still have kept 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now. 
To have been lord of Sicgendorf, and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
May keep me prisoner here till 

[He pauses and looks at Werner ; then resumes. 
This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed. 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary ; 
An error would spoil all. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Your lordship seems 



Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

T is past fatigue which gives my weigh' d-down spirii 



An outward show of thought. 



will to rest. 



IDENSTEIN. 

The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendour. 

{A.nde.) Somewhat tatter'd 
And deviUsh damp, but fine enough by torch-hght j 
And that 's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 

STRALENHEIM {rising and turning to GaboRj 
Good night, good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the mean time, I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

GABOR. 

I attend you. 

STRALENHEIM 

{After a few steps, pauses, and calls Werner). 
Friend ! 

WERNER. 

Sir? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sir ! Lord ! — oh, Lord ! Why don't you sav 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

STRALENHEIM {tO IdENSTEIN). 

Peace, intendant ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh! 
I am dumb. 

STRALENHEIM {tO WeRNER). 

Have you been long here ? 

WERNER. 

Long ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I sough* 
An answer, not an echo. 

WERNER. 

You may seek 
Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed ! ne'ertheless, 
You might reply with courtesy, to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

WERNER. 

When I know it such, 
I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 

STRALENHEIM. 

The intendant said, you had been detain'd by sickxie?us- 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 

WERNER {quickly). 
I am not journeying the same way. 

STRALENHEIM. 

How know ye 
That, ere you know my route ? 

WERNER. 

Because there is 
But one way that the rich and poor must trea*i 



392 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days ; henceforth 
(Jur roads must he asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your language is above 
Your station. 

WERNER {bitterly). 
Is it? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Or, at least, beyond 
Your garb. 

WERNER. 

'T is well that it is not beneath it. 
As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
STRALENHEIM {startled). 

I! 

WERNER. 

Yes — you ! You know me not, and question me, 
And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have. 
And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 

WERNER. 

Many have such : — Have you none ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

None which can 
Interest a mere stranger. 

WERNER. 

Then forgive 
The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have nought in common with him. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Sir, 
I will not balk your humour, though untoward : 
I only meant you service — but, good night ! 
Intendant, show the way ! 

{to Gabor). Sir, you will with me? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and Attendants, Iden- 
sTEiN and Gabor. 

WERNER {solus), 
'T IS he ! I 'm taken in the toils. Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kmitzner (such the name I then bore), when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls— fool that I was to quit them ! But 
1 deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure. 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What 's to be done ? He knows me not by person ; 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
Have recognised him, after twenty years, 
^' e met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
Divme the franlmess of the Hungarian, who. 
No doubt, is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's 
1 o sound ard to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances whi^h purchase modes 
'>f overpowering peril with men's Uves,— 



How can I hope ? An hour ago, methought 
My state beyond despau- ; and now, h is such. 
The past seems paradise. Another day. 
And I 'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honours, rights, and my inheritance. 
When a few di-ops of gold might save me still 
In favouring an escape. 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz in conversation. 

FRITZ. 

Immediately. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I tell you, 't is impossible. 

FRITZ. 

It must 
Be tried, however ; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

IDENSTEIN. 

will do what I can. 

FRITZ. 

And recollect 
To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The baron is retired to rest ? 

FRITZ. 

He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Before 
An hour is past, I '11 do my best to serve him. 

FRITZ. 

Remember ! [Exit Fritz. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The devil take these great men ! they 
Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their Uves, despatch them o'er the river towatis 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's oami experieD«',e 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling: 
But no, " it TTZMSi," and there 's an end. How n"»w J 
Are you there. Mynheer Werner ? 

WERNER. 

You have left 
Your noble guest right quickly. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes — he's dozing 
And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
But I must not lose time : good night ! 

[Exit Idenstein. 

WERNER. 

" To Frankfort !" 
So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a hiiff 
lying on a table in a recess. 



_ .^ ^ 

WERNER. 3^S 


Now I am master of myself at least. 


With its own weight impedes more than protects. 


Hark ! — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 


Good night. I trust to meet with him at day-break. 


Will wait for even the show of that authority 


[Exit Gabor. 


Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 


Re-enter Idenstein and some peasants. Josephine 


That he suspects me 's certain. I 'm alone ; 


retires up the Hall. 


Ho witn a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 






FIRST PEASANT. 


In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 


But if I 'm drown'd ? 


I nameless, or involving in my name 


IDENSTEIN. 


Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 


Why, you'll be well paid for t, 
And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 


He full-blown with his titles, which impose 


Still farther on these obscure petty burghers 


I doubt not. 


Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer still ! 


dTTTHVT^ ■Pf A C A TWF 


I '11 to the secret passage, which communicates 


But our wives and families ? 


With the No ! all is silent— 'twas my fancy !— 


IDENSTEIN. 


Still as the breathless interval between 


Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
Be better. 


The flash and tnunder : — I must hush my soul 


Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire. 


THIRD PEASANT. 


To see if still be unexplored the passage 


I have neither, and will venture. 


[ wot of: it will serve me as a den 


IDENSTEIN. 


Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 


That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
A soldier. I '11 promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed ; 


[Werner draws a panel, and exit, clo'iing it 
after him. 


Enter Gaeor and Josephine. 


And you shall have besides in sparkling coin 


. GABOR. 


Two thalers. 


Where is your husband ? 


THIRD PEASANT. 


JOSEPHINE. 


No more ? 


^ere, I thought : I left him 


IDENSTEIN. 


Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 


Out upon your avarice ! 


Have many outlets, and he may be gone 


Can that low vice alloy so nmch ambition ? 


To accompany the intendant. 


I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 


GABOR. 


Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 


Baron Stralenheim 


Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 


Put many questions to the intendant on 


Risk Uves and souls for the tithe of one thaler ? 


The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 


When had you half the sum ? 


I have my doubts if he means well. 


THIRD PEASANT. 


JOSEPHINE. 


Never — but ne ti 


Alas! 


The less I must have three. 


Wliat can there be in common with the proud 


IDENSTEIN. 


And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner? 


Have you forgot 


GABOR. 


Whose vassal you were born, knave ? 


That you know best. 


THIRD PEASANT. 


JOSEPHINE. 


No — the prince n. 


Or, if it were so, how 


And not the stranger's. 


Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 


IDENSTEIN. 


. Rather than that of him whose life you saved ? 


Sirrah ! in the prince's 


GABOR. 


Absence, I 'm sovereign ; and the baron is 


I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 


My intimate connexion ; — " Cousin Idenstein ! 


I did not pledge myself to serve him in 


(Quoth he) you 'U order out a dozen villains." 


Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 


And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, I say 


Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 


And if a single dog's ear of this packet 


I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up, when 


Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 


I find them practising against the weak :— 


For every page of paper, shall a hide 


This is my only motive. 


Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 


JOSEPHINE. 


Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 


' It would be 


Refractory vassals, who cannot effect 


Not easy to persuade my consort of 


Impossibilities — Away, ye earth-worms ! 


Your good intentions. 


[Exit, driving them on*. 


GABOR. 


JOSEPHINE {coming forivard). 


Is he so suspicious ? 


I fain would shun these scenes, too oft repeated, 


JOSEPHINE. 


Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 


He was not once ; but time and troubles have 


I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 


Made him what you beheld. 


Even here, in this remote, unnamed, duil spot 


GABOR. 


The dimmest in the district's map, exist 


I 'm sorry for it. 


The insolence of wealth in poverty 


Suspicion is a heavy, armour, and 


O'er something poorer still — Ihe uride of raiiit 


2M 55 





594 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ir. serriiiiJe o'er some'ihing sdil more semle; 
And vice in nuserr, affecting still 
A tatterd splendour. What a stale <rf bang ! 
In Tuscan V, mv own dear sunny land. 
Our nobles were but citizens and mochants, 
Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not sndi 
As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing vaUejs 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each heri> 
Was in itself a meal, and erery vine 
Rain'd, as it were, the bevwage which makes ^ad 
'Ihe heart of man ; and the ne'er onfelt son 
(But rarely clouded, and when doaded, leaving 
His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
Oppressive than an emperor's jewelPd porple. 
But, here ! the despots of the nonh appear 
To inVitate the ice-wind of their chme, 
Searchins the shivering vassal through his rags, 
To wrng his soul — as the bleak elements 
His fona. And 't is to be anxmgst these sovereigns 
Mv husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 
That twenty years of usage, such as no 
Fatlier, bom in an humble stale, couM nerve 
His soul to persecute a son withal. 
Hath changed no atom of his eariy nature ; 
But I, bom nobly also, from my fkther's 
Kindness was taught a different le^on. Father ! 
May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
Look down on us, and our so long-deared 
nric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 
What's that? Thou, Wemer! can it be: and this! 
Enter Wesls^b. haOSy, uiA the knife in his hand, by 
the sea^panetjiddAhe doses kurriedbf after him, 

WEK9ES {not ddjini, recogmdng her). 
Discova^d! then III stab— —(reeogman^^ *er). 
Ah! Jc^^hine, 
fVTiy art thou not at rest? 

JOSEPHISE. 

What rest? My God! 
tVhat doth this mean? 

WE&sxR {showing a rouleau). 

H«e's gold — ^foii, Josephine, 
VVm rescue ns from this det^ted dungeon. 

JOaXPHISE. 

And bow oMam'd? — ihat knife ! 

WERSXR. 

'T is blwiess— yrf. 
A. way — -^e must to our chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

But whence com'st thou ? 

W-ER5ER. 

Ask not ! but let us think wh^e we diall go— 
T^is — ttus will make os way. {thawing the gold) — 
I 'D fit them now. 

JOSEPHnrE. 

dare not think thee gmlty of dishonour. 

•WXRSER. 

Oishonncp". 

JOSEFHnrE. 

I have said it. 

WEBITER. 

Letns hence: 
r !s the last night, 1 trust, that we need pass here. 

JOSEPHINE 

<'^c nrrt the worst, I hope 



WERSER. 

Hope ! I make sure. 
But 1^ OS to our chamb«-. 

JOSEPHrSE. 

Yet <Hie question ! 
What hast thoa done ? 

WERjyER (^«rcefy). 

Left one thing unoone^ whim 
Had made a9 wdl: let me not think of it. 
Away! 

JOSEPHISE. 

Alas, that I ^ould doabt of thee ! 

\Ezeuta, 



ACT II. 

SCEXE I. 
A. SaU in the same Palace. 
Enter IpEXSTEiy a'id others. 

IDESSTErS. 

Pine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings ! 

A baron pillaged in a prince's palace ! 

Where, till this homr, such a sin ne'o- was heard cL 

FRITZ. 

It hardly codd, unless the rats despoiPd 
TTie mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

IDEXSTEIX. 

Oh ! that I ere should live to see this day ! 
TTie honour of our aty 's gtme ibr ever. 

FRITZ. 

Wdl, hot now to discover the delinquent ; 
Hie barmi is d^ermined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 

iDEysTEijr. 

And so am L 

FRITZ. 

But whom do yon suspect ? 

IDE5STEIX. 

Suspect ! all people 
Without — ^withm — abore — below — ^Hearoi hdp me * 

FRITZ. 

Is there no other entrance to the chamber? 

rDEjrSTEIX. 

Nine whalevo'. 

FRITZ. 

Are you sure of that ? 

IDEXSTEITf. 

Certain. I have lived and served here since my Init.'ti 
And if there were such, must have heard of such. 
Or seen iL 

FRITZ. 

Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 
iBEysTEnr. 

Doubtless. 

FRITZ. 

The man calTd Wemer 's poor ! 

IDESSTEiy. 

Poor as a raise . 
But lodged so far off, in the other wing. 
By which there 's no communication with 
The baron's diamber, that it can't be he : 
Besides, I bade him ** good night" in tile haL, 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous fckmT 
Appears to have been committed. 



The etranger- 



There 's another — 



IDENSTEIN. 

The Hungarian ? 

FRITZ. 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

IDEKSTEIN. 



He who help'd 



Not 



Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite? 

FRITZ. 

How? We, Sir! 

IDENSTEI>'. 

No^not 3/ou,. 
But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown ; 
His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
A cabinet ■with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold ; of which one only 
Has disappear'd: — the door unbolted, with 
No diiBcult access to any. 

FRITZ. 

Good sir, 
Be not so quick : the honour of the corps. 
Which forms the baron's household, 's unimpeach'd, 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation ; such as in accompts, 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, butter}', 
Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents. 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters : 
But for your petty, picking, do^^-nright thievery, 
We scorn it as we do board-wages : then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to heizard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
Also the cabmet, if portable. 

IDEySTEIW. 

There is some sense in that 

FRITZ. 

No, sir ; be sure 
'Twas none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
Picker and stealer, -n ithout art or genius. 
The only question is — ^Who else could have 
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 

IDENSTEIN. 

You don't mean me ? 

FRITZ. 

No, sir ; I honour more 
roar talents 

IDENSTEIN. 

And my principles, I hope. 

FRITZ. 

Of course. But to the point : What 's to be done ? 

IDENSTEIX. 

Nothing — but there 's a good deal to be said. 
We '11 offer a reward ; move heaven and earth, 
And the police (though there 's none nearer than 
Frankfort); post notices in manuscript 
(For we've no printer); and set by my clerk 
To r-jad them (for few can, save he and I). 
We'll -end out villains to strip beggars, and 



Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
All g}'psies, and ill-clothed and sailow people. 
Prisoners we '11 have at least, if not the culprit , 
And for the baron's gold — if 't is not found, 
At least he shall have the fuU satisfaction 
Of melting twice the substance in the raising 
The ghost of tliis rouleau. Here 's alchymy 
For your lord's losses \ 

FRITZ. 

He hath found a better. 

IDEXSTEIN. 

Where? 

FRITZ. 

In a most immense inheritance. 
The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, 
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Was there 
No heir? 

FRITZ. 

Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the worn 
A prodigal son, beneath liis father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
Refused to kiU the fatted calf; and, therefo^ 
If living, he must chew the husks still. Buv 
The baron would find means to silence him. 
Were he to re-appear : he 's politic. 
And has much influence mth a certain court. 

IDEXSTEIN. 

He 's fortunate. 

FRITZ. 

'T is true, there is a grandson, 
Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hand* 
And educated as his heir ; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

IDEXSTEi:y. 
How 30 ? 
FRITZ. 

His sire made 
A left-hand love, imprudent sort of man-iage, 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorf 's. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

IDETJSTEIX. 

If he 's a lad of mettle, he may yet 

Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 

Puzzle your baron to unravel. 

FRITZ. 

Why, 
For mettle, he has quite enough : they say. 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The devil he did' 

FRITZ. 

Why. ye*. 
It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken bv r. 



1 — . — ■) 

39G BYRON'S WORKS. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Have rank by birth and soldicrsnip, and friends 


vV^as there no caase assign'd? 


Who shall be yours. 'T is true, this pause of peace 


FRITZ. 


Favours such views at present scantily ; 


Plenty, no doubt, 


But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirriiig; 


And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 


And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 


It was to seek his parents ; some, because 


Is but a petty war, as the times show us 


Tlie old man held his spirit in so strictly 


In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 


(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him): 


War will reclaim his own ; and, in the mean Ume, 


A third believed he vvish'd to serve in war, 


You might obtain a post, which would insure 


But peace being made soon after his departure, 


A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 


He might have since returned, were that the motive ; 


To rise. I speak of Brandenburgh, wherein 


A fourth set charitably have surmised. 


I stand well with the elector ; in Bohemia, 


As there was something strange and mystic in him. 


Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 


That in the wild exuberance of his nature. 


Upon its frontier. 


He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 


ULRIC. 


The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 


You perceive my garb 


Since the last years of war had dwindled into 


Is Saxon, and of course my service due 


A kind of general condottiero system 


To my own sovereign. If I must decline 


Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 


Your offer, 't is vdth the same feeling which 


And all against mankind. 


Induced it. 


IDENSTEIN. 


STRALENHEIM. 


That cannot be. 


Why, this is mere usury ! 


A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 


I owe my hfe to you, and you refuse 


To risk his life and honours with disbanded 


The acquittance of the interest of the debt. 


Soldiers and desperadoes ! 


To heap more obligations on me, till 


FRITZ. 


I bow beneath them. 


Heaven best knows ! 


ULRIC. 


But there are human natures so allied 


You shall say so, when 


Unto the savage love of enterprise, 


I claim the payment. 


That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 


STRALENHEIM. 


I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 


Well, sir, since you will uol 


Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 


You are nobly born ? 


VTere fed on milk and honey. After all, 


ULRIC. 


Vour Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 


I 've heard my kinsmen say so 


Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 


STRALENHEIM. 


Were but the same thing upon a gi-and scale ; 


Your actions show it. Might I ask your name? 


And now that they are gone, and peace proclaimM, 


ULRIC. 


They who would follow the same pastime must 


Ulric. 


Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 


STRALENHEIM. 


The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 


Your house's? 


Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape. 


ULRIC. 


But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 


When I 'm worthy of it, 


Until this morning. 


I '11 answer you. 


Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 


STRALENHEIM {oside). 


STRALENHEIM. 


Most probably an Austrian, 


Since you have refused 
All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words, 


Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 


His Uneage on these wild and dangerous frontiers. 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fritz and Idenste id. 


And blush at my own barren gratitude, 


So, sirs ! how have you sped in your researches ? 


They seem so niggardly, compared with what 


IDENSTEIN. 


Your courteous courage did in my behalf. 


Indifferent well, your excellency. 


ULRIC. 


STRALENHEIM. 


I pray you press ihe theme no further. 


Then 


STRALENHEIM. 


I am to deem the plunderer is caught? 


But 


IDENSTEIN. 


Can I nci serve you ? You are young, and of 


Humph ! — not exactly. 


That mould which throws out heroes ; fair in favour ; 


STRALENHEIM. 


Brave, I know, by my living now to say so, 


Or at least suspected. 


And, doubtlessly, with such a form and heart. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Would look into the fiery eyes of war. 


Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 


As ardently for glory as you dared 


STRALENHEIM. 


An obscure death to save an unknown stranger 


Who may he be? 


}n an as perilous but opposite element. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Vaii a'ft made for the service : I have served ; 


Why, don't you know, my lord ' 



WERNER. 397 


STRALENHEIM. 


A hundred golden ducats, which to find 


How snould I ? I was fast asleep. 


I would be fain, and there 's an rnd ,• perhaps 


IDENSTEIN. 


You (as I still am rather faint), vould add 


And SO 


To yesterday's great obligation, this. 


Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 


Though shghter, yet not slight, :> aid these men 


Than does your excellency. 


(Who seem but lukewarm) in r ;covering it ? 


STRALENHEIM. 


ULRIC. 


Dolt ! 


Most willingly, and without los ^ of time — 


IDENSTEIN. 


( To Idenstein) . Come hither. Mynheer ! 


Why, if 


IDENSTEIN. 


Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognise 


But so much haste bcklaa 


The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 


Right little speed, and 


The thief among so many ? In the crowd. 


ULRIC 


May it please your excellency, your thief looks 


Standing motionless, 


Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 


None ; so let 's march, we '11 talk as we go on. 

IDENSTEIN. 


'T is only at the bar and in the dungeon 


That wise men know your felon by his features ; 


But 


But I '11 engage, that if seen there but once, 


ULRIC 


Whether he be found criminal or no. 


Show the spot, and then I '11 answer you. 


His face shall be so. 


FRITZ. 


STRALENHEIM (^oFrITZ). 


I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 


Prithee, Fritz, inform me 


STRALENHEIM. 


What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 


Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 


FRITZ. 


FRITZ. 


; Faith ! 


Hence ! 


My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 


ULRIC 


STRALENHEIM. 


Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 


Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects me 


[Exit with Idenstein and Fritz 


Just now materially), I needs wouid find 


STRALENHEIM {solus). 


The villain out of pubUc motives ; for 


A stalwart, active, soldier-looking stripling. 


So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 


Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour. 


Through my attendants, and so many peopled 


And with a brow of thought beyond his years 


And Ughted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 


When in repose, till his eye kindle up 


The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 


In answering yours. I wish I could engage him ; 


Leave bare your borough. Sir Intendant ! 


I have need of some such spirits near me now, 


IDENSTEIN. 


For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 


True; 


And though I am not the man to yield without one, 


If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 


Neither are they who now rise up between me 


ULRIC. 


And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one : 


What is aU this ? 


But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 


STRALENHEIM. 


Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 


You join'd us but this morning, 


Champion his claims : that 's well. The father, whore 


And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 


For years I 've track'd, as does the blood-hound, neve' 


ULRIC 


In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 


Some rumour of it reach'd me as I pass'd 


To fault, but here I have him, and that 's better. 


The outer chambers of the palace, but 


It must be he ! All circumstance proclaims it ; 


I know no further. 


And careless voices, knowing not the cause 


STRALENHEIM. 


Of my inquiries, still confirm it— Yes ! 


It is a strange business : 


The man, his beanng, and the mystery 


The intendant can inform you of the facts. 


Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too. 


IDENSTEIN. 


The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 


Most willingly. You see 


Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect : 


STRALENHEIM {impatiently). 


Besides the antipathy with which we met. 


Defer your tale, 


As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 


Till certain of the hear-er's patience. 


By secret instinct that both must be foes 


IDENSTEIN. 


Deadly, without being natural prey to either; 


That 


All — all — confirm it to my mind : however. 


Can only be approved by proofs. You see 


We '11 grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 


STRALENHEIM {again interrupting him^ and address- 


The order comes from Frankfort, '^ '>?ese water^» 


ing Ulric). 


Rise not the higher (and the weather favours 


fn short, I was asleep upon a chair, 


Their quick abatement), and I '11 have him sate 


My cabinet before me, with some gold 


Within a dungeon, whene he may avouch 


Upon it (more than I much like to lose. 


His real estate and name ; and there 's no harm doiwk. 


Though in part only) : some ingenious person 


Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 


Contrived to glide through all my own attendants 


(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also ; 


Besides those of the place, and bore away 
2m 2 


He 's poor, and that 's susmcious~ho b unitnown 





398 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And that '« defenceless,— true, we have no proofs 
Of guih, but what hath he of innocence ? 
Were he a man indifFerenl to my prospects, 
In other bearings, I sliould rather lay 
Tiic inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
Hath something which I like not ; and alone 
Of all around, except the mtendant, and 
The prince's household and my own, had ingress 
Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 

GAEOR. 

As those who fare well every where, when they 
Have supp'd and slumber' d, no great matter how — 
And you, my lord ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Better in rest than purse : 
Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

GABOR. 

I heard 
Of your late loss : but 't is a trifle to 
One of your order. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You would hardly think so 
Were the loss yours. 

GABOR. 

I never had so much 
(At once"! in mv whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are tui-n'd back — I have outstript them, 
In my return. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You!— Why? 

GABOR. 

I went at day-break, 
To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check'd like myself j 
And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Would the dogs were in it ! 
Why dia tnev not. at least, attempt tlie passage ? 
I nrder'a .ms at all risks. 

GABOR. 

Could you order 
The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream), and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I must see to it : 
The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall smart for this. 

[^Exit STRALENHEIM. 
GABOR [solus). 

There goes my noble, feudal, self-will'd baron ! 

Epitome of what brave chivalry 

The preux chevaliers of the good old times 

Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 

His lands fif he hath any), and, still dearer, 

His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 

A.S uuu'id have filled a bladder, while he lay 

♦ burgling and foaming halfway through the window 

K)^ his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance ; 

Antl now he storms at half a dozen wretches 



Because they love their hves too ! Yet he 's righi 

'T is strange they should, when such as he may put 

them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou vvorld ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! [£0;^ G abob 



SCENE n. 

The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 
Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
After twelve years ? 

ULRIC. 

My dearest mother ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yes! 
My dream is realized — how beautiful — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour too, 
He comes not only as a son but saviour. 

ULRIC. 

If such joy await me, it must double 

What I now feel, and Ughten, from my heart, 

A part of the long debt of duty, not 

Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me ' 

This long delay was not my fault. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I know it. 
But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
My memory, by tliis obUvious transport ! — 
My son ! 

Enter Werner. 

WERNER. 

What have we here ? — more strangers ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

No' 

Look upon him ! What do you see ? 

WERNER. 

A striplmg, 

For the first time 

ULRIC {kneeling). 
For twelve long years, my father ', 

WERNER. 

Oh, God ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

He faints ! 

WERNER. 

No — I am better now — 
Ulric! {Embraces him). 

ULRIC. 

My father, Siegendorf ! 

WERNER {starting). 

Hush! boy — 
The walls may hear that name ! 

ULRIC. 

What then? 

WERNER. 

Why, thtn— 
But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again! Why, thou look'st all 



WERNER. 39'J 


I should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 


WERNER. 


Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me ; 


Ay, if at Prague : 


Hut had I seen that form amid ten thousand 


But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 


Vouth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 


Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 


This for my son ! 


He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 


ULRIC. 


By favour 


And yet you knew me not ! 


ULRIC 


WERNER. 


Doth he personally know you ? 


Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 


WERNER. 


Which makes me look on all men with an eye 


No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person. 


That only knows the evil at first glance. 


As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 


ULRT.C. 


But owe my temporary liberty 


My memory served me far more fondly : I 


To his uncertainty. 


Have not forgotten aught ; and oft-times in 


ULRIC 


The proud and princely halls of— (I 'U not name them, 


I think you wrong him. 


As you say that 'tis perilous), but i' the pomp 


(Excuse me for the phrase) ; but Stralenheim 


Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 


Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, 


To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 


He owes me something both for past and present ; 


And wept to see another day go down 


I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me ; 


O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 


He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither ; 


They shall not part us more. 


Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 


WERNER. 


Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him ; 


I know not that. 


I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 


Are you aware my father is no more ? 


Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 


ULRIC. 


Have found, in searching for another's dross, 


Oh heavens ! I left him in a green old age, 


My own whole treasure— you, my parents ! 


And looking like the o:tk, worn, but still steady 


WERNER {agitatedly). 


Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 


Who 


Fell fast around him. 'T was scarce three months since. 


Taught you to mouth that name of " villain ?" 


WERNER. 


ULRIC 


Why did you leave him ? 


WhEl 


JOSEPHINE {embracing JJi.'Ric). 


More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 


Can you ask that question? 


WERNER. 


Is he not here ? 


Who taught you thus to brand an unknown being 


WERNER. 


With an infernal stigma ? 


True ; he hath sought his parents, 


ULRIC 


And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state 1 


My own feelings 


ULRIC 


Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 


All shaU be better'i What we have to do 


WERNER. 


Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 


Who taught you, long-sought, and ill-founrl boy ! thai 


Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 


It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 


Your father has disposed in such a sort 


ULRIC 


Of his broad lauds as to make mine the foremost, 


I named a villain. What is there in conimon 


So that I must prefer my claim for form : 


With such a being and my father ? 


But I trust better, and that all is yours. 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Every thing ! 


Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 


That ruffian is thy father ! 


ULRIC. 


JOSEPHINE. 


I saved 


Oh, my son I 


His life but yesterday : he 's here. 


Believe him not — and yet ! {Her voice falters. } 


WERNER. 


ULRIC {starts, looks earnefiily at Werner, and tfith. 


You saved 


says slowly). 


The serpent who will sting us all ! 


And you avow it ? 


ULRIC 


WERNER. 


You speak 


Ulric! before you dare despise your father, 


Riddles : what is this' Stralenheim to us? 


Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 


WERNER. 


Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap. 


Every thing. One who claims our fathers' lands : 


Is it for you to measure passion's force 


Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 


Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long. 


ULRIC 


I Cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait! — 


1 never heard his name till now. The count. 


Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted— till 


Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 


Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin , 


If his own line should fail, might be remotely 


Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 


Involved in the succession : but his titles 


Despair your bed- fellow —then rise, but not 


Were never named before me — and what then ? 


From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arnv^i— 


His right must yield to ours. 


Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 

—1 



400 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Himself around all that is dear and noble 

Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 

With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 

When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 

liands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 

Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 

The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep. 

Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere 

Inviting death, by looking like it, while 

llh death alone can save you: — Thank your God ! 

If then, like me, content with petty plunder, 

Vou turn aside 1 did so. 

ULRIC. 

But 

WERNER {^abruptly). 

Hear me ! 
I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
ile 's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I 'm in his : are you not so ? 
Who tells you that he knows you not ? Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you, or 
To plunge you, wi'Ji your parents, in a dungeon ? 

[He pauses, 

UI-RIC. 

Proceed — proceed ! 

WERNER. 

3Ie he hath ever known. 
And huntel through each change of time — name — 

fortUiie — 
And why not you ? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snai-es round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurn'd 
Even from my presence : but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
Blade venial by ihe occasion, and temptations 
Which nature camiot master or forbear. 

ULRIC {looks Jirst at him, and then at Josephine). 
My mother ! 

WERNER. 

Ay ! I thought so : you have now 
Only one parenc. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone 

Ut.RIC. 

But stay ! 
[Werner rws/zes out of the chamber. 
JOSEPHINE {to Ulric). 
Follow him not, until this storm of passion 
Abates. Thmk'st thou that were it well for him 
1 had not foUow'd ? 

ULRIC 

I obey you, mother, 
AlthoagH reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of discbedience. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh ' he is good . 



Condemn him not from his o.vn mouth, but trust 

To me who have borne so much with him, and for huj« 

That this is but the surface of his soul. 

And that the depth is rich in better things. • 

ULRIC. 

These then are but my father's principles ! 
My mother thinks not with him ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Nor doth he 
Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

ULRIC 

Explain to me 
More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or, at least, 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ay! 
Hadst thou but done so ! 

Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Attendants. 
GABOR {to Ulric). 

I have sought you, comrade. 
So this is my reward ! 

ULRIC 

What do you mean ? 

GABOR. 

'S death ! have I lived to these years, and for this ? 
{To Idenstein). But for your age and folly,! v\ould- 

IDENSTEIN. 

Hell 
Hands off! touch an intendant ! 

GABOR. 

Do not think 
I '11 honour you so much as to save your throat 
From the Ravenstone,' by choking you myself. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I thank you for the respite ; but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 

ULRIC 

Unriddle this vile WTangling, or 

GABOR. 

At once, then, 
The baron has been robb'd, &nd upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester evening. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Wouldst have me suspect 
My own acquaintances ? You In o to learn 
That I keep better company. 

GABOR. 

You shall 
Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men — 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gaeor seizes on him. 
ULRIC {interfering). 

Nay, no violence : 
He 's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 
GABOR {letting ^0 Idenstein). 

True • 



1 The Ravenstone, " Rabenstein," is the stone gibbet oi 
Germany, and so called f-om tlie ravens perching on it 



I am a fool to lose myself because 

Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

ULRIC (ifO IdENSTjEIN). 



Fare you ? 



How 



IDENSTEIN. 



Help! 



ULRIC. 

I have helpM you. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Kill him! then 
I 'U say so. 

GABOR. 

I am calm — live on ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's more 
Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

GABOR. 

Does he abet you in your accusation ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Does he not ? 

GABOR. 

Then next time let him go sink, 
Ere I go hang for s>natching him from drowning. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Siralenheim. 
GABOR {goes up to him). 

My noble lord, I 'm here ! 
stralenheim. 
Well, sir! 

GABOR. 

Have you aught with me ? 
stralenheim. 

What should I 
Have with you ? 

GABOR. 

You know best, if yesterday's 
Flood has not wash'd away your memory ; 
But that 's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person, 
Or chamber — is the charge your own, or his ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I accuse no man. 

GABOR. 

Then you acquit me, baron ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I know not whom to accuse or to acquit, 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

GABOR. 

But you at least 
Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted — 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty ! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
If duly taught : but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
1 am your equal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You! 

GABOR. 

Ay, sir ; and for 
A-ught that you linow, superior ; but proceed — 



I do not ask for hints, and surmises. 

And circumstance, and proofs ; 1 know enough 

Of what I have done for you, and what you owe mrj. 

To have at least waited your payment rather 

Than paid myself, had 1 been eager of 

Your gold. I also know that were I even 

The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 

So recently would not permit you to 

Pursue me to the death, except through shame. 

Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 

But this is nothing; I demand of you 

Justice upon your unjust servants, and 

From your own lips a disavowal of 

All sanction of their insolence : thus much 

You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 

And never tliought to have ask'd so much. 

STRALENHEIM. 

This tone 
May be of innocence. 

GABOR. 

'S death ! who dare doubt it. 
Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You 
Are hot, sir. 

GABOR. 

Must I turn an icicle 
Before the breath of menials, and heir master? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric ! you know this man ; I found Aim in 
Your company. 

GABOR. 

We found you in the Oder ; 
Would we had left you there ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I give you thanks, sl. 

GABOR. 

I 've earn'd them ; but might have earn'd more froTn 

others, 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric ! you know this man ? 

GABOR. 

No more than you do, 
If he avouches not my honour. 

ULRIC. 

I 
Can avouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connexion led me, honour. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then 
I 'm satisfied. 

GABOR {ironically). 
Right easily, methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I merely said that I 
Was satisfied — not that you were absolved, 

GABOR. 

Again ! Am I accused or no ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Goto! 
You wax too insolent : if circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you, 
Is the fault mine? Is 't not enough that I 



402 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 

GABOR. 

My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage ; 

A vile ;;quivocation : you well know 

Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 

Your looks, a voice — ^>'our frowns, a sentence ; you 

Are practising your power on me — because 

You have it ; but beware, you know not whom 

You strive to tread on. 

STRALENHEiai. 

Threat'st thou ? 

GABOR. 

Not SO much 
As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

STRALENHEIM. 

As you have said, 't is true I owe you something, 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourseif. 

GABOR. 

Not with your gold. 

STRALENHEIM. 

With bootless insolence. 
[To his Attendants and Idenstein. 
You need not fuither to molest this man, 
But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 
[Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants. 

GABOR {following). 

I '11 after him, and 

ULRIC {stopping him). 
Not a step. 

GABOR. 

Who shall 
Oppose me ? 

ULRIC. 

Your own reason, with a moment's 
Tnought. 

GABOR. 

Must I bear this ? 

ULRIC 

Pshaw ! we all must bear 
The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I 've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things v/hich had made this silk-worm cast his skin — 
And shi-ink you from a few sharp sneers and words ? 

GABOR. 

Must I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 't were 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There 's something daring in it — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

ULRIC. 

It seems, then, 
You are not guilty. 

GABOR. 

Do I hear aright ? 
Vbu, too ! 

ULRIC. 

I merely ask'd a simple question. 

GABOR. 

If fne judge ask'd me, I would answer " No "— 
T you I answer thus. [He draws. 

ULRIC (drawing). 

With aU mv heart . 



JOSEPHINE. 

Without there ! Ho ! help ! help !— Oh ! God ! here 's 
murder ! [Eait Josephine, shrieking. 

Gabor and VhRic Jight. Gabor is disarmed just as 
Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, etc. re- 
enter. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh ! glorious Heaven ! he 's safe ! 

STRALENHEIM (io JoSEPHINE). 

IVho's safe ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

My 

ULRIC {interrvpting her with a stern look, and turning 
afterwards to Stralenheim). 

Both! 
Here 's no great harm done. 

stralenheim. 

What hath caused all this 7 

ULRIC 

You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor ! 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it next, 
Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last vwrds slofioly and 
emphatically in a low voice to Gabor. 

GABOR. 

I thank you 
Less for my life than for your counsel. 
stralenheim. 

These 
Brawls must end here. 

gabor {taking his sword). 
They shall. You have wrong'd me, U.Vic, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword ; I would 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
Absurd insinuations — Ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquish'd me. 
I was the fool of passion to conceive 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by. 
However — but in friendship. [Exit Gabor 

stralenheim. 

I will brook 
No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succour. 
Ukic, ycu are not hurt ? 

ULRIC 

Not even by a scraicn. 

STRALENHEIM (<0 IdENSTEIN). 

Intendant ! take your measures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort, 
The instant that the waters have abated 

IDEXSTEIN. 

Secure him ! he hath got his swore again — 
And seems to know the use on 't ; 't is his trade 
Belike : — I 'm a civilian. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Fool ! are not 
Yon score of vassals dogsmg at vour heela 



WERNER. 



403 



Enough to seize a dozen such? Hence! after him! 

ULRIC. 

[i;iron, I do beseech you ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I must be 
Obey'd No words ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well, if it must be so — 
March, vassals ! I 'm your leader — and will brmg 
The rear up : a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Come hither, 
Ulric: — what does that woman here? Oh! now 
I recognise her, 't is the stranger's wife 
Whom they name " Werner." 

ULRIC. 

'T is his name. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed ! 
Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Who seeks him ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No one — for the present: but 
I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

ULRIC. 

I will retire with you. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Not so. 
You are the latest stranger, and command 
All places here. 
{Aside to Ulric as she goes out). Oh ! Ulric, have a 

care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word ! 

ULRIC {to Josephine). 
Fear not ! — 

[Exit Josephine. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric, I think that I may trust you ? 

You saved my life — and acts like these beget 

Unbounded confidence. 

ulric 

Say on. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Mysterious 
And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 

ULRIC. 

Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No— this "Werner"- 
With the fals>e name and habit. 

V7LRIC. 

How can this be ? 
He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
The ma^ is helpless. 

STRALENHEIM. 

He is — 't is no matter — 
But '^ he be the irian I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 
Thai is not here — confirm my apprehension), 



He must be made secure, ere twelve hours further. 

ULRIC 

And what have I to do with this ? 

STRALENHEiar, 

I have sent 
To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend — 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburgh) 
For a fit escoit— but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 

ULRIC 

It is abating. 

STRALENHEIM. 

That is well. 



Am I concem'd ? 



ULRIC. 

But how 



STRALENHEIM. 

As one who did so much 
For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me than 
The hfe you rescued. — Keep your eye on him / 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know him.— • 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar whctj 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

ULRIC 

Why so ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

He stands 
Between me and a brave inheritance. 
Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 

ULRIC 

I hope so, 

STRALENHEIM. 

It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd it lightly : 5o that now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms afar and near 
Made deserts. 

ULRIC 

You describe it faithfully. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ay — could you see it, you would say so — but 
As I have said, you shall. 

ULRIC 

I accept the omen. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
And services to me and mine for ever. " 

ULRIC 

And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch— 
This wayworn stranger — stands between you aha 
This paradise? — (As Auam did between 
The devil and his.)^ — [Aside.] 

STRALENHEIM. 

He doth. 

ULRIC 

Hath he no right • 

STRALENHEIM. 

Right! none. A disinherited prodigal. 

Who for these twenty years disgraced his lireage 

In all Tiis acts- but chiefly by his "nai "iage. 



W4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And living iniidst commerce- fetching burghers, 
A.nd dabbling merchants, m a mart of Jews. 

ULRIC. 

He has a wife, then ? 

ST-RALENHF.IM. 

You 'd be sorry to 
Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calls his wife. 

ULRIC. 

Is she not so ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No more 
Than he 's your father ; — an Italian girl, 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On lo^e and poverty with this same Werner. 

ULRIC. 

They are childless, then ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

There is or was a bastard, 
Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom. 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled, 
So one knows whither ; and if he had not, 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. Why do you smile? 

ULRIC. 

At your vain fears : 
A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

All 's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 

ULRIC 

True ; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You have harp'd the very string next to my heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

ULRIC. 

'T were too late 
To doubt it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Let no foolish pity shake 
Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine ; and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act ; 
Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

ULRIC 

And they, my lord, we know 
By your experience, never plunder till 
They knock the brains ou« first — which ipakes them 

heirs, 
Not thieve? The dead, who feel nought, can lose 

noinuig, 
Nur t'er be robb'd : *their spohs are a bequest — 
No more. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Go to '. you are a wag. But say 
i tiuiy be sure you '11 keep an eye on this man, 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
'^onoeplment or escape? 



ULRIC 

Ycu may be sure 
You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

By this you make me 
Yours, and for ever. 

ULRIC 

Such is my intention. 

[Exeunt 



ACT III 

SCENE I. 



A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret 
Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

GABOR. 

Sir, I have told my tale ; if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not — I 'U try my fortune elsewhere. 

TVERNER. 

How 

Can I, so wretched, give to misery 

A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 

As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

GABOR. 

Or, 

The wounded Hon his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look Uke one would turn at bay. 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

WERNER. 

Ah! 

GABOR. 

I care not 
If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself; but will you shelter me? 
I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you — 
Disgraced — 

WERNER [abruptly). 
Who told you that I was disgraced ? 

GABOR. 

No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
I said / was so — and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as you. 

WERNER. 

Again ! 
As/? ^ 

GABOR. 

Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have ? You don't believe mp 
Guilty of this base theft ? 

WERNER. 

No, no — I cannot. 

GABOR. 

Why, that 's my heart of honour ! yon young gallant- 

Your miserly intendant, and dense noble — 

All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 

I am the worst-clothed and least-named amongst them 

Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts, 

My soul might brook to open it more widely 

Than theirs ; but thus it is — you poor and helpless- 

Both still more than myself 



WERNER. 



40cf 



WERNER. 

Kow know you that ? 

GABOR. 

fou're right ; I asK for shelter at the hand 

t\'hich 1 call helpless ; if you now deny it, 

I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 

The wholesome bitterness of life, know well. 

By sjTiipalhy, that all the outspread gold 

Of the New World, the Spaniard boasts about. 

Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 

Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 

Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 

Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 

Upon his heart o' nights. 

WERNER. 

What do you mean ? 

GABOR. 

Just what I say ; I thought my speech was plain: 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men. 
Should aid each other. 

WERNER. 

It is a damn'd world, sir. 

GABOR. 

So is the nearest of the two next, as 

The priests say (and no doubt they should know best), 

Thereiore I '11 stick by this — as being loth 

To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 

An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 

It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 

To-morrow I mil try the waters, as 

The dove did, trusting that they have al> ed. 

WERNER. 

Abated? is there hope of that? 

GABOR. 

There was 
\t noontide. 

WERNER. 

Then we may be safe. 

GABOR. 

Are you 
In peril ? 

WERNER. 

Poverty is ever so. 

GABOR. 

That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less ! 

WERNER. 

Your poverty ? 

GABOR. 

No — you don't look a leech for that disorder ; 
I meant my peril only : you 've a roof. 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

WERNER. 

Rightly ; for how should such a WTetch as 1 
Have gold ? 

GABOR. 

Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't, 
Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 

WERNER. 

Dare you insinuate ? 

GABOR. 

What? 



To whom you speak ? 

2N 



Are you aware 



GABOR. 

No ; and I am not used 
Greatly to cai-e. [A noise heard without). Bat hark ' 
they come ! 

WERNER. 

Who come ? 

GABOR. 

The intendant and his man-hounds after mc . 
I 'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Yf here shall I go ? 
But show me any place. 1 do assure you, 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
Think if it were your owti case ! 

WERNER {aside). 

Oh, just God ! 
Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

GABOR. 

I see you 're moved ; and it shows well in you : 
I may hve to requite it. 

WERNER. 

Are you not 
A spy of Stralenheim's ? 

GABOR. 

Not I! ar.dif 
I v/ere, what is there to espy m you ? 
Although I recollect his frequent question 
About you and your spouse, might lead to some 
Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why : 
I am his deadliest foe. 

WERNER. 

Vou? 

GABOR. 

After such 
A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd him — I am his enemy ; 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

WERNER 

I will. 

GABOR, 

But how ? 

WERNER (showing the panel). 
There is a secret spring ; 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
And used it but for safety. 

GABOR. 

Open it. 
And I ^^'iH use it for the same. 

WERNER. 

I found it. 
As I have said : it leads through vsdnding walls, 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs. 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
Give me your word. 

GABOR. 

It is unnecessary : 
How should I make my way in darkness, through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 

WERNER. * 

Yes, but who knows to what place it may lead ? 

/ know not — (mark you ! ) — but who knows it might no« 

Lead even into the chambers of your foe ? 

So strangely were contrived these galleries 

By oiu- Teutonic fathers in old days. 

When man built less against the elemenU? 



Than his next neighbour. You must not advance 
Beyond the two first windings ; if you do, 
(Albeit I never pass'd them), I '11 not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

GABOR. 

But I will. 
A thousand thanks ! 

WERNER. 

You '11 find the spring- more obvious 
On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
It yields to the least touch. 

GABOR. 

I '11 in — farewell ! 
[Gabor goes in by the secret panel. 

WERNER (aolus). 

What have I done ? Alas ! what had I done 
Before to make this fearful? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man, 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 
Enter Idenstein, and others. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid 
Of pictured sam's, upon the red and yellow 
Casements, through which the sunset streams like sunrise 
On long pearl-colour'd beads and crimson crosses, 
And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords, 
All the fantastic furniture of windows. 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
Likeness £md fame alike rest on some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He 's gone, however. 

WERNER. 

Whom do you seek ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

A villain! 

WERNER. 

Why need you come so far, then ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

In the search 
Of him who robb'd the baron. 

WERNER. 

Aje you sure 
You have divined the man ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

As sure as you 
Stand there ; but where 's he gone ? 

WERNER. 

Who? 

IDENSTEIN. 

He we sought. 

WERNER. 

Vou see he is not here. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And yet we traced him 
Up to this hall: are 'you accomplices, 
Or deal vou in the t)lack art "^ 

WERNER. 

I deal plainly, 
To mnnv men the blackest. 

IDENSTEIN. 

It may be 



I have a question or two for }-our3elf 
Hereafter ; but we ;nunt continue now 
Our search for l' other. 

WERNER 

You had best begin 
Your inquisition now ; I may not be 
So patient always. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I should like to know. 
In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim 's m quest of? 

WERNER. 

Insolent ! 
Said you not that he was not here ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes, one : 
But there 's another whom he tracks more keenly. 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come I 
Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants 

WERNER. 

In what 
A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil ! rising in my heart ! 
Thou art too late ! I '11 nought to do with blood. 
Enter Ulric. 

ULRIC. 

I sought you, father. 

WERNER. 

Is 't not dangerous ? 

ULRIC. 

No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upon 3'our actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

WERNER. 

I cannot think it : 
'Tis but a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

UI.RIC. 

I canno* 
Pause at each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briars in our path. 
But must break through them as an unarm'd carle 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf nistit ,■ 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread : 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so ; 
We '11 overfly, or rend them. 

WERNER. 

Show me how ! 

tJLRIC. 

Can you not guess ? 

WERNER. 

I cannot. 

ULRIC. 

That is strange. 
Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night 7 

WERNER. 

I understand you not. 

ULRIC. 

Then we shall never 
More understand each other. But to change 
The topic 



WERNER. 40"? 


WERNER. 


ULRIC 


You mean to pursue it, as 


I would have 


'T is of our sateu . 


Spared you the trouble ; but had I appear'd 


ULRIC. 


To take an interest in you, and still more 


Right ; I stand corrected. 


By dabbling with a jewel in your favour. 


I see the subject now more clearly, and 


All had been known at once. 


Our general situation in its bearings. 


WERNER 


The waters are abating ; a few hours 


My guardian ange' ! 


Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 


This overpays the past ! But how wilt thou 


VVhen you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 


Fare in our absence ? 


And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 


ULRIC. 


Of this same baron, to make way for him. 


Stralenheim knows nothing 


WERNER. 


Of me as aught of Idndred ^vith yourself. 


And now your remedy ! I thought to escape 


I will but wait a day or two with him 


By means of this accursed gold, but now 


To lull all doubts, and tlien rejoin my father. 


I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 


WERNER. 


Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 


To part no more ! 


For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 


ULRIC. 

I know not that ; but at 


With hissing snakes, who curl around my temples, 
And cry to all beholders — lo ! a villain ! 


The least we '11 meet again once more. 

WERNER. 

My boy ! 


ULRIC. 


My friend— my only child, and sole preserver • 


You must not use it, at least, now ; but take 


Oh, do not hate me ! 


This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 


ULRIC. 


WERNER. 


Hate my father! 


A gem ! it was my father's. 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


Ay, 


And 


My father hated me : why not my son ? 


As such is now your own. With this you must 


ULRIC. 


Bribe the intendant for his old caleche 


Your father knew you not as I do. 


And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 


WERNER. 


Together with my mother. 


Scorpions 


WERNER. 


Are in thy words! Thou know me? In this guise 


And leave you, 


Thou canst not know me— I am not myself— 


So lately found, in peril too? 


Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 


ULRIC. 


ULRIC. 


Fear nothing ! 


I 'U wait ! 


Tbe only fear were if we fled together, 


In the mean time be sure that all a son 


For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 


Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 


The waters only He in floods between 


WERNER. 


This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favour. 


I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 


The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 


Further — that you despise me. 


Is not impassable ; and when you gain 


ULRIC. 


A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 


Wherefore shouid I ' 


The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 


WERNER. 


The frontier, and you 're safe. 


Must I repeat my humiliation ? 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


My noble boy ! 


No! 


ULRIC. 


I have fathom'd it, and you. But let us talk 


Hush ! hush ! no transports : we '11 indulge in them 


Of this no more. Or if it must be ever. 


In Castle Siegendorf! Display no gold: 


Not now ; your error has redoubled all 


Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 


The presei^t difficukies of our house, 


And have look'd through him) : it will answer thus 


At secret war w-ith that of Stralenheim ; 


A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold- 


All we have now to think of is to baffle 


No jewel : therefore, it 'could not be his ; 


Him. I have shown one way. 


And then, the man who was possess'd of this 


WERNER. 


Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 


The only one, 


The baron's coin, w^hen he could thus convert 


And I embrace it, as I did my son, 


This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 


Who show'd himself and father's safety in 


By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 


One day. 


In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 


ULRIC. 


^nd Idenstem will serve you. 


Tou shall be safe : let that suffice. 


WERNER. 


Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bonerma 


I wU follow 


Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 


In all thinjjs your direction. 


Admitted to our lands ? 



108 BYRON'S WORKS. 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


Assuredly, 


An old Boliemian — an miperial gipsy. 


Situate as we are now, although the first 


IDENSTEIN. 


Posses.>or might, as usual, prove the strongest, 


A gipsy or Bohemian, 't is the same. 


EspccJ.iUy the next in blood. 


For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 


ULRIC. 


ULRIC 


Blood! 'tis 


I 've heard so ; but I must take leave. Intendant, 


A word of many meanings : in the veins 


Your servant ! — Werner {to Wernkr, slightly), iitha'. 


And out of them it is a different thing — 


be your name. 


And so it should be, when the same in blood 


Yours. [Exit Ulric 


(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other, 


IDENSTEIN. 


Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad. 


A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man ! 


A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 

WERNER. 


And prettily behaved ! He knows his station. 


You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 


I do not apprehend you. 


Precedence ! 

WERNER. 


ULRIC. 


I perceived it, and applaud 


That may be— 


His just discernment and your own. 


And should, perhaps,— and yet— but get ye ready ; 


IDENSTEIN. 


You and my mother must away to-night. 


That 'swell- 


Here comes the intendant ; sound him with the gem ; 


That 's very '<.vell. You also know your place, too. 


'Twill sink into his venial soul lilce lead 


And yet I don't Vr.cn that 1 know your place. 
WERNER {showing the ring). 


Into the deep, and bring up slime, and mud, 


And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 


Would this assist your knowledge ? 


With its greased understratum ; but no less 


IDENSTEIN. 


Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 


How!— What!— Eh! 


The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 


A jewel ! 


Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 


WERNER. 


My father ! 


'T is your own, on one condition. 


WERNER. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Let me embrace thee ! 


Mine !— Name it ! 


ULRIC 


WERNER. 


We may be 


That hereafter you permit me 


Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 


At thrice its value to redeem it : 't is 


Keep off from me as from your foe I 


A family ring. 


WERNER. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Accursed 


A family ! yours ! a gem ! 


Be he who is the stifling cause, which smothers 


I 'm breathless ! 


The best aud sweetest feeling of our hearts, 


WERNER. 


At such an hour too ! 


You must also furnish me. 


ULRIC. 


An hour ere daybreak, with all means to iiuii 


Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 


This place. 


H^re is the intendant. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Enter Idenstei? ^ 


But is it real? let me look on it: 


Master Ider.stein, 


Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 


How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 


WERNER. 


The rogue"? 


Come, I'll trust you; 


idenstein. 


You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was bom above 


No, faith ! 


My present seeming. 


ULRIC. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Well, there are plenty more : 


I can't say I did, 


You may have better luck another chase. 


Though this looks like it ; this is the true breeding 


Where is the baron ? 


Of gentle blood ! 


idenstein. 


WERNER. 


Gone back to his chamber : 


I have important reasons 


And, now I thmk on 't, asking after you 


For wishing to continue privily 


With nobly-born impatience. 


My journey hence. 


ULRIC. 


IDENSTEIN. 


Your great men 


So then you are the man 


Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 


Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of! 


Of the stung steea replies unto the spur : 


WERNER. 


'T is well they have horses, too, for if they had not, 


I am not ; 


I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 


But being taken for him might conduct 


Tliev sav kings did Sesostns. 


So much embarrassment to me just now. 


IDENSTEIN. 


And to the baron's self hereafter— 't is 


\Vlio was he ? 


To spare both, that 1 would avoid all bustle. 



WERNER. 



409 



IDENSTEIPf. 

Be you the man or no, 't is not m\ business ; 

Besides, I never should obtain the half 

From this proud niggardly noble, who would raise 

The country for some missing bits of coin, 

And never offer a precise reward — 

But this ! Another look ! 

WERNER. 

Gaze on it freely ; 
At day-dawn it is yours. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 
Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou load-star of 
The soul ! the true magnetic pole to which 
All hearts point duly norih, hke trembling needles ! 
Thou flaming spirit of the earth ! which, sitting 
High on ihe monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
Milhons of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 
Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchymist ! — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

WERNER. 

Call me Werner still ; 
Y'ou may yet know me by a loftier title. 

IDENSTEI'^ 

I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream'd, in a low garb. — 
But come, I 'U serve thee ; thou shalt be as free 
As air, despite the waters : let us hence — 
I '11 show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel !) 
Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such means 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again ! 
I have a foster-brother in the mart 
Of Hamburgh, skill'd in precious stones — how many 
Carats may it weigh? — Come, Werner, I will wing thee. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE n. 
Stralenheim's Chamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

FRITZ. 

All 's rewdy, my good lord ! 

stralenheim. 

I am not sleepy, 
And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber, 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
'Tvvixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
And man, an everlasting mist ;— -I will 
Unto my pillow. 

fritz. 
May you rest there well ! 



[ fee^., and fear, 
2k2 



stralenheim. 
Shan. 

57 



fritz. 

And wherefore fear ? 
stralenheim. 
I know not why, and therefore do fear more, 

Because an undescribable but 't is 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed to-day, of this chamber ? for last night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

FRITZ. 

Certainly, 
According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they call him "Ulric." 

STRALENHEIM. 

You thinh ! you supercilious slave ! what right 

Have you to tax your memory, which should be 

Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 

Of him who saved your master, as a Utany 

Whose daily repetition marks your duty — 

Get hence ! '■'•you thinh,''^ indeed ! you, who stood still 

Howhng and dripping on the bank, whilst I 

Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 

The roaring torrent, and restored m.e to 

Thank him — and despise you. " You think /" and scarce 

Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 

Mere words on you. Call me betimes. 

FRITZ. 

Good night ! 
I trust tc-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renov ted strength and temper. 

[The scene closes 



SCENE m. 

T%e secret Passage. 

Gaeor {solus). 

Four — 
Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of out-posts, on the never-merry clock : 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell, 
Though for a marriage feast it rings : each stroke 
Peals of a hope the less ; the funeral note 
Of love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
Tonriple time in the son's ear. 

I 'm cold- 
I 'm dark — I 've blown my fingers — number'a o'er 
And o'er my steps — Euid knock'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses^and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cursed pattering feet and whirring wings 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
A Ught! It is at distance (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance) : but it blinks 
As through a crevice or a key-hole, in 
The inhibited direction ; I must on. 
Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident 
In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
To nothing that may tempt me ! Else Heaven aid tiia 
To obtain or to escape it ! Shining still ' 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself. 



^110 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 

Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 

That corner's turn'd— so— ah! no, right ! it draws 

Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so, 

That's weather'd.— Let me pause.— Suppose it leads 

Into some greater danger than that which 

\ hive escaped ? — no matter, 'tis a new one ; 

And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 

Wear more magnetic aspects : I will on, 

And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 

Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 

'J'hou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 

My stationary Will o' the wisp ! — So ! so ! 

He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes. 



SCENE IV. 
A Garden, 
Enter Werner. 
I could not sleep — and now the hour 's at hand ; 
All 's ready. Idenstein has kept his word : 
.And, station'd in the outskirts of the to\vn, 
ripon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
Rut not dishonour'd : and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! A never-dying canker-worm. 
Which all the coming splendour of the lands, 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf, 
Can scarcely luU a moment : I must find 
Some means of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part ; but how, without discovery ? — 
It must be done, however ; and I '11 pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my miser f led to this 
Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it: 
I will have nought of Stralenheira's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life,— and yet he sleeps ! as soundly. 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 

Such as when Hark ! what noise is that ? Again ! 

The branches shake ; and some loose stones have fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[Ulric leaps dawn from the terrace. 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

ULRIC, 

Stop! before 



vVe approach, tell mf 



rtobold my father, oi- 



insano or msolent ' 



WERNER. 

Why look you so ? 

ULRIC. 



Do I 



WERNER. 

What? 

DLRIt:. 

An assassin . 

WERNER. 



ULRIC. 

Reply, sir, as 
You prize your life, or mine ! 

WERNER. 

To what must I 
Answer ? 

ULRIC. 

Are you or are you not the assa.ssin 
Of Stralenlieim ? 

WERNER. 

I never was as yet 
The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 

ULRIC 

Did you not this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again re\'isit Stralenheim's chamber ? and 

[Ulric pauses, 

WERNER. 

Proceed. 

ULRIC 

Died he not by your hand? 

WERNER. 

Great God ! 

ULRIC 

You are innocent, then ! my father 's innocent ! 
Embrace me ! Yes, — your tone — ^your look — yes, yes — 
Yet say so ! 

WERNER. 

If I e'er, in heart or mind. 
Conceived deUberately such a thought. 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment thiough 
The irritation of my oppress'd spirit — 
May Heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes ! 

ULRIC. 

But Stralenheim is dead. 

WERNER. 

'T is horrible ! 't is hideous, as 't is hateful !— 
But what have I to do with this ? 

ULRIC 

No bolt 
Is forced ; no violence can be detected. 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the Ccire 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has. 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature 

WERNER. 

Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 
Of dark fatality, Uke clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ! 

ULRIC 

My father, I acquit you ! 
But will the world do so ? Will even the judge, 
If but you must away this instant. 

WERNER. 

No! 
I '11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 

ULRIC 

Yet 

You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

WERNER. 

Ah! 



WERNER. 411 


1 lie Hungarian ! 


You, my son /—-doubted 


ULRIC. 


ULRIC. 


He is gone ! he disappear'd 


And do you doubt of liini 


Ere sunset. 


The fugitive? 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


No ; I hid him in that very 


Boy ! since I fell into 


Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 


The abyss of crime (though not o^ such crime), I, 


ULRIC. 


Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me. 


There I 'U find him. 


May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 


[Ulric is going. 


Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 


■WERNER. 


Appearances ; and views a criminal 


J I IS too late : he had left the palace ere 


In innocence's shadow, it may be, 


I quitted it. I found the secret panel 


Because 'tis dusky. 


Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 


ULRIC. 


Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the silent 


And if I do so. 


4nd favourable moment to escape 


What win mankind, who know you not, or knew 


The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 


But to oppress ? ^ou must not stand the hazard. 


Dogging him yester-even. 


Away !— I 'U make all easy. Idenstem 


ULRIC. 


Will, for his own sake and his jewel's, hold 


You re-closed 


His peace — he also is a partner in 


The panel ? 


Your flight— moreover 


WERNER. 


WERNER. 


Yes ; and not \vithout reproach 


Fly ! and leave my name 


(And inner trembUng for the avoided peril) 


Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd, as poorest, 


At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 


To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 


His shelterer's asylum to the risk 


ULRIC. 


Of a discovery. 


Pshaw ! leave any thirijj 


ULRIC. 


Except our fathers' sovereignty and castles, 


You are sure you closed it ? 


For which you have so long panted and m vain I 


WEJINER. 


What name 1 You leave no name, since that you bear 


Certain. 


Is feign'd. 


ULRIC. 


WERNER. 


That 's well ; but had been better if 


Most true ; but still I would not have it 


You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for {He pauses. 


Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 


WERNER. 


Though m this most obscure abode of men— 


Thieves ! 


Besides, the search 


Thou wouldst say : I must bear it, and deserve it ; 


ULRIC. 


But not 


I will provide against 


ULRIC. 


Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 


No, father, do not speak of this ; 


As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 


This is no hour to think of petty crimes, 


Suspects, 'tis hut suspicion, and he is 


But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 


A fool : his folly shall have such emplojonent. 


Why would you shelter this man ? 


Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 


WERNER. 


To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 


Could I shun it? 


Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 


A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 


With the late general war of thirty years, 


For my o^vn crime ; a \'iclim to my safety, 


Or crush'd, or rismg slowly from the dust, 


Imploring a few hours' concealment from 


To which the march of armies trampled them. 


The very wretch who was the cause he needed 


Slralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 


Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 


Here, save as such — without lands, influence. 


Have, in such circumstances, thrust him forth. 


Save what hath perish'd with him ; fe\v prolong 


ULRIC. 


A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 


And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 


O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 


It is too late to ponder this : you must 


Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 


Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 


Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave. 


Trace out the murderer, if 't is possible. 


Obscure as his deserts, w-^hout a scutcheon. 


WERNER. 


Is all he '11 have, or wants. If / discover 


But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch 


The assassin, 't \%ill be well— if not, beUeve me, 


Suspicion, two new victims, in the lieu 


None else, though all the full-fed train of menials 


Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 


May howl above his ashes, as they did 


Who seems the culprit, and 


Around him in his danger on the Oder, 


ULRIC 


Will no more stir a finger now than then. 


Who seems I Who dsQ 


Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your answer- • 4oo» 


Caubcso? 


The stars are almost faded, and the gray 


WERNER. 


Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 


Not 7, thTugh just now you doubted— 


You shall not answer— Pardon rae, that I 



412 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am peremptory ; 't is your son that speaks, 

V'our long-lost, !atc-found son— Let 's call my mother ! 

Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 

To me ; I '11 answer for the event as far 

Aj' regards t/om, and that is the chief point, 

As my first duty, which shall be observed. 

We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf— once more 

Our banners shall be glorious i Think of that 

Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me, 

Whose youth may better battle with them— Hence ! 

And may your age be happy ! — I will liiss 

My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you! 

WERNER. 

This counsel 's safe — but is it honourable? 

ULRIC. 

To save a father is a child's chief honour. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE 1. 

d Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near Prague^ 
Enter Eric and Henrick, retainers of the Count, 

ERIC. 

So, better times are come at last ; to these 
^)ld walls new masters and high wassail, both 
A long desideratum. 

HENRICK. 

Yes, for masters. 
It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

ERIC 

Why, 
For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

HENRICK. 

The old count loved not 
The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 

ERIC 

As yet he hath been courteous as he 's bounteous, 
And wc all love him. 

HENRICK. 

His reign is as yet 
Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon. 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal ; 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

ERIC 

Pray Heaven he keep the present 
Then his brave son, Count Ukic— there 's a knight! 
Pity the wars are o'er ! 

HENRICK, 

Why so ? 

ERIC. 

Look on him ! 
And answer that yourself 

HENRICK. 

He's very youthful, 



And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

ERIC 

That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 



HENRICK. 



But 



Perhaps a true one. 

ERIC 

Pity, as I said, 
The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
Which awes but yet offends not ? in the field, 
Who hke him with his spear in hand, when, gnashmg 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket ? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 

HENRICK. 

No one's, I grant you : do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

ERIC 

What do you mean ? 

HENRICK. 

You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our fellow native vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
As {pauses). 

ERIC 

What? 

HENRICK. 

The war (you loye so much) leaves hvmg j 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 

ERIC 

Nonsense ! they are all brave iron-visaged fellows. 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

HENRICK. 

And who loved Tilly? 
Ask that at Magdebourg — or, for that matter, 
Wallenstein either — they are gone to 

ERIC 

Rest; 
But what beyond, 't is not ours to pronounce. 

HENRICK. 

I wish they had left us something of their rest : 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is overrun with — God knows who — they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave no less desolation, nay, even more 
Than the most open warfare. 

ERIC 

But Count Uhic— 
What has all this to do with him ? 

HENRICK. 

With him! 

He might prevent it. As you say he 's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 

ERIC 

You'd better ask himself. 

HENRICK. 

I would as soon 
Ask of the lion why he laps not mik. 

ERIC. 

And here he comes ! 

HENRICK. 

The devil ! you '11 hold your tongue ? 



A 



WERNER. 



13 



ERIC. 

Why do you turn so pale ? 

HESRICK. 

'T is nothing — ^but 
Be silent ! 

ERIC. 

I will, upon what you have said. 

HENRICK. 

1 assure you I meant nothing, a mere sport 

Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise, 

He is to espouse the gentle baroness, 

Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress, 

And she no doubt mil soften whatsoe'er 

Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 

Have given all natures, and most unto those 

Who were born in them, and bred up upon 

The knees of homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 

With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace, 

On all that I have said ! 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count ! 
ulric. 
Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

ERIC. 

The dogs are order'd 
Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite? 
What courser will you please to mount ? 

ULRIC. 

The dun, 
Walstein. 

ERIC. 

I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
The toils of Monday : 't was a noble chase — 
You spear'd four \vith your own hand. 

ULRIC 

True, good Eric, 
I had forgotten — let it be the gray, then, 
Old Ziska : he has not been out this fortnight. 

ERIC 

He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

ULRIC 

I leave that to WeUburgh, our 
Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

RODOLPH. 

My lord! 

ULRIC 

The news 
Is awkward from the — (Rodolph potTiis to Henrick.) 

- How now, Henrick, why 
Loiter you here ? 

HENRICK. 

For your commands, my lord. 

ULRIC 

Go to my father, and present my duty, 
And learn if he would aught with me before 
mount. [Eocit Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Francoma, and 
'T is nmiour'd that the column sent against them 



Is to be strengthen'd. ! must join them soon. 

RODOLPH. 

Best wait for further and more sure advices. 

ulric 
I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 

RODOLPH. 

It will be difficult 
To excuse your absence to the count, your father. 

ulric 
Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
In High Silesia, will permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
Whom WolfFe leads — keep the forests on your route : 
You know it well ? 

RODOLPH. 

As well as on that night 
When we 

ULRIC 

We wiU not speak of that until 
We can repeat the same with hke success ; 
And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter, 

[Gives a letter. 
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
To our force with you and WolfFe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 

RODOLPH. 

I tho>\ght you loved the lady Ida? 

ULRIC 

Why, 
I do so — but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone, 
Although 't were that of Venus ; — but I love her. 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

RODOLPH. 

And constantly? 

ULRIC 

I think so ; for I love 
Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed! speed! goodRodo'ph' 

RODOLPH. 

On my return, however, I shall find 

The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ! 

ULRIC 

Perhaps : my father wishes it, and sootxi, 
'T is no bad policy ; this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

RODOLPH. 

Adieu! 

ULRIC 

Yet hold — we had better keep ..ogetnei 
Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 
And do as I have said. 

RODOLPH. 

I wiU. But to 
Return — 't was a most kind act in the count. 
Your father, to send up to Konigsburg 



41^ 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Foi 'his fair orphan of the baron, and 
To h-:i her as his daughter. 

ULRIC. 

Wondrous kind ! 
Especia./y as httle kindness till 
TheK ^rew between them. 

RODOLPH. 

The late baron died 
Of a fever, did he not ? 

ULRIC. 

How should I know? 

RODOLPH. 

I have h'^ard it whisper'd there was something strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 
Is scarcely known. 

ULRIC. 

Some obscure village on 
The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

RODOLPH. 

He 
tJas left no testament — no farewell words ! 

ULRIC. 

I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

RODOLPH. 

Ah ! here 's the lady Ida. 
Enter Ida Stralenheim. 

ULRIC. 

I ou are early, my sweet cousin ! 

IDA. 

Not too early, 
Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me " cousin ?" 

ULRIC {smiling). 

Are we not so? 

IDA. 

r^.s, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
fv sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 

ULRIC {starting). 
Blood ! 

IDA. 

Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 

ULRIC. 

Ay! doth it? 

^ IDA. 

II doth — but no ! it rushes like a torrent 
Kven to your brow agam. 

ULRIC {recovering himself). 
And if it fled, 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, wliich beats for you, sweet cousin ! 

IDA. 

»' Cousin " again ! 

ULRIC 

Nay, then I '11 call you sister. 

IDA. 

fike that name still worse — would we had ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 

ULRIC {gloomily). 

Would we never had ! 

IDA. 

\)h Heavon : Ani can you wish that ? 

ULRIC. 

Dearest Ida ! 



Did I nor echo your own wish ? 

IDA. 

Yes, UL-ic, 
But then I vdsh'd it not with such a glance. 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister or cousin, what you will, so tliat 
I still to you am something. 

ULRIC 

You shall be 
AU— aU 

IDA. 

And you to me are so already ; 
But I can wait. 

ULRIC 

Dear Ida ! 

IDA. 

Call me Ida, 
Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father-^ 

[She pauses. 

ULRIC. 

You have mine — ^you have me. 

IDA. 

Dear Ulric ! how I wish 
My father could but view our happiness. 
Which wants but tliis ! 

ULRIC 

Indeed ! 

IDA. 

You would have loved hun ; 
He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud (as is birth's prerogative), but under 
This grave exterior — would you had known each other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his jounu'y, 
He had not died without a friend to soothe 
His last and lonely moments. 

ULRIC 

Who says that ? 

IDA. 

What? 

ULRIC. 

That he died alone. 

IDA. 

The general rumour, 
And disappearance of hi^ servants, who 
Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 

ULRIC 

If they were near him, 
He could not die neglected or alone. 

IDA. 

Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed. 
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
It loves? — they say he died of a fever. 

ULRIC 

Say! 



It 



IDA. 

I sometimes dream otherwise. 



All dreams are fal «e. 



I see you. 



IDA. 

And yet I see hiir 



WERNER. 



4!5 



ULRIC. 

Where ? 

IDA. 

In sleep — I see him lie 
Palo, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Hcside him. 

ULRIC. 

But do you not see his yace 7 
IDA {looking at him). 
No ! oh, my God ! do yow? 

ULRIC. 

Why do you ask ? 

IDA. 

Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 

ULRIC {agitatedly). 
Ida, this is more childishness : your weakness 
Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

IDA. 

Child, indeed ! I have 
Full fifteen summers ! [A bugle sounds. 

RODOLPH. 

Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 
IDA {peevishly to Rodol.I'h). 
Why need you tell him that ? Can he not hear it, 
Witliout your echo ? 

RODOLPH. 

Pardon me, fair baroness ! 

IDA. 

I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
(yount Ulric from the chase to-day. 

RODOLPH. 

You will not, 
Lady, need aid of mine. 

ULRIC. 

I must not now 
Forego it. 

IDA. 

But you shall ! 

ULRIC. 

Shall! 

IDA. 

Yes, or be 
No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
In this, for this one day ; the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

ULRIC. 

You jest. 

IDA. 

Indeed I do not : ask of Rodolph. 

RODOLPH. 

Truly, 
My lord, within this quarter of an hour, 
You have changed more than I e'er saw you change 
In years. 

ULRIC. 

'T is nothing ; but if 't were, the air 
W ould soon restore me. I 'm the true cameleon, 
And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nur?e not 
My spirit — J 'm a forester, and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle hives. 



IDA. 

Except his prey, I hope. 

ULRIC. 

Sweet Ida, msh me a fair chase, and I 

Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home 

IDA. 

And will you not stay, then ? You shall not go ! 
Come! I will sing to you. 

ULRIC. 

Ida, you scarcely 
Will make a soldier's wife. 

IDA. 

I do not wish 
To be so ; for I trust these wars are over, 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

Enter Werner, as Count Siegendorf. 

ULRIC. 

My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 

With such brief greeting. — ^You have heard our bugle ; 

The vassals wait. 

siegendorf. 
So let them — ^you forget 
To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague, for peace restored. You are apt to folU/» 
The chase with such an ardour as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

ULRIC. 

You, count, 
Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

SIEGENDORF. 

No, Ulric ; 
It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

IDA. 

And far the noblest 
In aspect and demeanour. 

SIEGENDORF (tO Ida). 

True, dear child, 
Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel.— 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honours. 
Believe me, 't would be rnark'd in any house. 
But most in ours^ that one should be found wanting 
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving ; first, for our country. 
And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 

ULRIC {aside). 
Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey at once. 

[Then aloud to a seivam, 
Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! 

[Exit LuDwitt, 

IDA. 

And so 
You yield at once to him, what J for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

SIEGENDORF (s» Hing). 

You art not jealous 
Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
Would sanction disobediente against aTi 



!:G BYRON'S WORKS. 


Except tJiyself ? But fear not, thou shalt rule him 


SIEGENDORF. 


Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 


I talk not of his birth, 


IDA. 


But of liis bearing. Men speak liglitly of hmi. 


But I should like to govern now. 


ULRIC. 


SIEGENDORF. 


So they will do of most men. Even the monarch 


You shall, 


Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 


yo\ir harp ; which, by the way, a%vaits you with 


The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 


The countess in her chamber. She complains 


Great and ungrateful. 


That you are a sad truant to your music : 


SIEGENDORF. 


She attends you. 


If I must be plain, 


IDA. 


The world speaks more than hghtly of this Rodolph : 


Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 


They say he is leagued with the " black bands" who slil 


Ulric, you '11 come and hear me ? 


Ravage the frontier. 


ULKIC. 


ULRIC 


By and by. 

IDA. 


And will you beUeve 
The world ?» 


Be sure I '11 sound it better than your bugles ; 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 


SIEGENDORF. 

In this case— yes. 


I '11 play you King Gustavus' march. 

ULRIC. 


ULRIC. 

In any case, 


And why not 

Old Tilly's. 


I thought you knew it better than to take 


An accusation for a sentence. 


IDA. 


SIEGENDORF. 


Not that monster's ! I should think 


Son! 


My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with music, 


I understand you : you refer to but 


Could aught of his sound on it ; — but come quickly ; 


IMy destiny has so involved about me 


Your mother will be eager to receive you. 


He<- spider web, that I can only flutter 


[Exit Ida. 


Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 


SIEGENDORF. 


Ulric ; you have seen to what the passions led me ; 


LTric, I wish to speak with you alone. 


Twenty long years of misery and famine 


ULRIC. 


Quench'd them not — twenty thousand more, perchant e 


RIy time 's your vassal.— [Aside to Rodolph. 


Hereafter (or even here in moments which 


Rodolph, hence ! and do 


Might date for years, did anguish make the dial), 


As I directed ; and by his best speed 


May not obliterate or expiate 


And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 


The madness and dishonour of an instant. 


RODOLPH. 


Ulric, be warn'd by a father !— I was not 


Count Siegendoi-f, command you aught? I am bound 


By mine, and you behold me ! 


Upon a journey past the frontier. 


ULRIC. 


SIEGENDORF {starts). 


I behold 


Ah!— 


The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 


WTiere ? on what frontier ? 


Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour'd 


RODOLPH. 


By those he rules, and those he ranks with. 


The Silesian, on 


SIEGENDORF. 


My way — {aside to Ulric). Where shall I say ? 


Ah! 


ULRIC (aside, <o Rodolph). 


Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 


To Hamburgh. 


For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 


{Aside to himself). That 


All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me— 


Wcrd will, I thmk, put a firm padlock on 


But if my son's is cold ! 


His further inquisition. 


ULRIC. 


RODOLPH. 


Who (Zarc say ^at? 


Count, to Hamburgh. 


SIEGENDORF. 


SIEGENDORF {agitated). 


None else but I, who see \{.—fed it— keener 


Hamburgh ! po, I have nought to do there, nor 


Than would your adversary, who dared say so. 


Am aught connected with that city. Then 


Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 


God speed you ! 


The wound. 


RODOLPH. 


ULRIC 


Fare ye well, Comit Siegendorf ! 


You err. My nature is not given 


[Exit Rodolph. 


To outward fondling ; how should it be so. 


SIEGENDORF. 


After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 


Olric, this man, who has just departed, is 


SIEGENDORF. 


One of those strange companions, whom I fain 


And did not I too pass those twelve torn years 


Would reason with you on. 


In a like absence ? But 'l is vain to urge you— 


ULRIO. 


Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 


My lord, he is 


Let 's change the theme. I wish you to consider 


Noble by burth. of one of the first houses 


That these young violent nobUjs of high name, 


In Savony. 
1 — - — . _ . 


But dark deeds fay, the darke-t, if : U rumour 



fj :: 

WERNER. 4 1 7 


Rep.orts be true), with whom thou consortest, 


ULRIC 


W Ul lead thee 


The daughter of dead Stralenhcim, your loe I 


X7LRIC [impatiently). 


I '11 wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth. 


I '11 be led by no man. 


Just now I am not Ndolently transported 


SIEGENDORF. 


In favour of such unions. 


Nor 


SIEGENDORF. 


he leader of such, I would hope : at once 


But she loves you. 


To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 


ULRIC 


And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 


And I love her, and therefore would think twice. 


That thou should'st wed the lady Ida— more, 


SIEGENDORF. 


As thou appear'st to love her. 


Alas ! Love never did so. 


ULPac. 


ULRIC. 


I have said 


Then 't is time 


I will obey your orders, were they to 


He should begin, and take the bandage from 


Unite with Hecate — can a son say more? 


His eyes, and look before he leaps ; 'till now 


SIEGEXDORF. 


He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 


He says too much in saying this. It is not 


SIEGENDORF. 


The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 


But you consenl ", 

ULRIC 


Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 


Or act so carelessly, in that which is 


I did and do. 


The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 


SIEGENDORF. 


(For glory's pillow is but restless, if 


Then fk the day. 


Love lay not down his cheek there): some strong bias, 


ULRIC 


Some master fiend, is m thy service, to 


'T is usual, 


Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 


And, certes, courteous, to leave that to the lady. 


And makes his every thought subservient ; else 


SIEGENDORF. 

/ win engage for her. 


Thou'dst say at once, "I love young Ida, and 


Will wed her," or, "I love her not, and all 


ULRIC 


The powers of earth shall never make me."— So 


So will not / 


Would I have answer'd. 


For any woman ; and as what I fk. 


UI.RIC. 


I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 


Sir, you v)ed for love. 


Her answer, I '11 give mine. 


SIEGEXDORF. 


SIEGENDORF. 


\ did, and it has been my only refuge 


But 'tis your office 


In many miseries. 

ULRIC. 


To woo. 

ULRIC 


Which miseries 


Count, 'tis a marriage of your making. 


Had never been but for this love-match. 


So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 


SIEGENDORF. 


I will now pay my duty to my mother, 


StiU 


With whom, you know, the lady Ida is— 


Against your age and nature ! who at twenty 


What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 


E'er answer'd thus till now ? 


For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 


ULRIC. 


And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer. 


Did you not warn me 


To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles, 


Against your own example ? 


And hst to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles. 


SIEGENDORF. 


And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 


Bopsh sophist! 


The eyes of feminie, as though they were 


In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida? 


The stars receding early to our msh 


ULRIC. 


Upon the dau-n of a world-winning battle — 


What matters it, if I am ready to 


What can a son or man do more ? [Exit Ulrh;, 


Obey you in espousing her ? 


SIEGENDORF [solus). 


SIEGEXDORF. 


Too much !— 


As far 


Too much of duty and too little love ! 


As 3'ou feel, nothing, but all life for her. 


He pays me in the coin he owes me not : 


She 's young — all-beautiful — adores you — is 


For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 


Endow'd with qualities-to give happiness, 


Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 


Such as rounds common life into a dream 


Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 


Of something which your poets cannot paint. 


Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without, tears 


And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 


To see my child agam, and now I have found him ' 


For which philosophy might barter wisdom ; 


But how? obedient, but n-ith coldness ; duteous 


And giving so much happiness deserves 


In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious. 


A little in return. I would not have her 


Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 


Break her heart for a man who has none to break, 


And where— none know— in league with the most ri 31 ou •- 


Or wither on her stalk Uke some pale rose 


Of our young nobles : though, to do him justice. 


Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 


He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures ; 


According to the orient tale. She is 


Yet there's some tie between them which I caj^mr 


2 58 







ns 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Uiuavel. Tyi'^y look up to him — consult liim — 
Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
He hatii no confidence I Ah ! can I hope it 
After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
Even ti) my child? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood, or — oh ! if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
Diilatch'd the door of death for thee? 'T was not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe. 
And yet I spared thee when my o\\'n destruction 
Slept wth thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
And only took — accursed gold ! thou Uest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
INIethinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
Tbou villanous gold ! and thy dead master's doom. 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

The abbot, if it plejise 
Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. [Exit Attendant. 

Enter the Prior Albert. 
PRTOR albert. 
Peace be -o-ith these walls, and all 
Within them ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 

Of such, and I 

PRIOR albert. 
Have the first claim to all 
The prayers of our community. Our convent. 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes, good father ; 
Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

To the endless home of unbelievers, 
Where there is everlasting wail and woe. 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

True, father : and to avert those pangs from one, 
Who, though of our most faultless, holy church. 
Yet diea without its last and dearest offices, 
Wluch smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
1 have :o otTer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

iSiEGENDORF oJTers the gold which he had taken 
Jrom Stralenheim. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Count, if I 
Receive it, 't is because I know too weR 
Refusal would offend ycu. Be assured 



The largess shall be only dealt in alms. 
And ever}' mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours, 
Wliich has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 't is fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 

SIEGENDORF {faltering). 

For — for — the aeai. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

His name. 

SIEGENDORF. 

'T is from a soul, and not a name, 
I would avert perdition. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

I meant not 
To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for tlie proudest. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Secret ! I have none ; but, father, he who 's gone 
Might have one ; or, in short, he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

A proper deed 
In the behalf of our departed friends. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But he, who 's gone, was not my friend, but foe, 
The deadhest and the staunchest. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Better still ! 
To employ our means to obtain heaven for the soul 
Of our dead enemies, is worthy those 
Who can forgive them hving. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But I did not 
Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. I do not love him now, 
But 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Best of all ! for this is pure religion ! 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
An evangelical compassion ! — with 
Your own gold too ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father, 't is not my gold. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Whose then ? you said it was no legacy. 

SIEGENDORF. 

No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
Who own'd it never more \vill need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars ' 
'Tis yours, or theirs. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Is there no blood upon it ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No : but there 's worse than blood — eternal shame . 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Did he who own'd it die in his bed ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas! 
He did. 

PRIOR ALBERT, 

Son ! you relapse into revenge. 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 

SIEGENDORF. 

His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 



WERNER. 



419 



PRIOR ALBERT. 

S^oii said he died in his bed, not battle. 



SIEGEXDORF. 



He 



Died, I scarce Know — oul — ne was stabb'd i' the dark, 

And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 

Hy a cut-throat ! — ay ! you may look upon me ! 

/ am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point, 

As I can one day God's. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Nor did he die 
By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No ! by the God who sees and strikes ! 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Nor know you 
VVho slew him ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I could only guess at onej 
And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge, 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Then you are free from guilt. 

siEGENDORF {eagerly). 

Oh ! ami ? — say ! 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

Fou have said so, and know best. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father ! I have spoken 
The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole : 
Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
3f this man weighs on me, as if I shed it. 
Though by the Power who abhorreth human blood, 
[ did not ! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
And could — ay, perhaps should — (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attacks of over-potent foes) ; 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
{ know not why, a Uke remorse is on me 
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

I will. 
Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But calmness is not 
Always the attribute of innocence : 
I feel it is not. 

PRIOR ALBERT. 

But it will be so, 
\Vhen the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
Remember the great festival to-morrow, 
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles, 
As well as }T)ur brave son ; and smooth your aspect ; 
Nor in the general orison of thanks 
For bloodshed stopt, let blood, you shed not, rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

A large cmd magnificent Gothic Hall in the Castle o,' 
Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies^ Banners^ ana 
Arms of that Family. 

Enter Arnheim and Meister, Attendants 0/ Count 

SiEGENDORF. 
ARNHEIM. 

Be quick ! the coimt will soon return ; the ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in sevch of him he seeks for? 

meister. 
I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
As far as the man's dress and figure could 
By your description track him. The devil take 
These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
I 'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

ARNHEIM. 

Go to ! my lady countess comes. 

MEISTER. 

I 'd rather 
Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
Than follow in the train of a great man 
In these dull pageantries. 

ARNHEIM. 

Begone, and rail 

Within. [Exeunt, 

Enter the Countess Josephine, Siegendorf, ani 

Ida Stralenheim. 

josephine. 

Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 

IDA. 

How can you say so ! Never have I dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful ! The flowers, the boughs. 
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights. 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces. 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun, 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the tombs^ 
Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hjTnns, 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like a harmonious thunder , 
The wiiite robes, and the lifted eyes ; the world 
At peace ! and all at peace with one anotner ! 
Oh, my sweet mother ! [Embracing Josephink 

JOSEPHINE. 

My beloved child ! 
For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

IDA. 

Oh! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

It does, my love ; and never may 't throb 
With aught more bitter ! 

IDA. 

Never shall it do so ! 
How should it? What should make us grieve? 1 hate 
To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad. 
Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
The count, and Ulric and vour (?aughtert Ida. 



[20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



JOSEl'HIXE. 

Pool child! 

IDA. 

Do you pity me '/ 

JOSEPHINE. 

No ; I but envy, 
And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

IDA. 

I '11 not hear 
A word against a world which still contains 
You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
Aughi Uke him ? How he tower'd amongst them all ! 
How all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster- 
Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
Than before all the rest, and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
Will wither. 

JOSEPHINE 

You will spoil him, little flatterer, 
If he should hear you. 

IDA. 

But he never will. 
I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 

JOSEPHINE. 

W hy so ? he loves you well. 

IDA. 

But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

How so ? 

IDA. 

A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
Vet he says nothing. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It is nothing : all men, 
Especially m these dark troublous times. 
Have much to think of. 

IDA. 

But I cannot think 
Of aught save him. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet there are other men. 
In the world's eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance, 
The young Count Waldorf,' who scarce once withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

IDA. 

I did not see him, 
tinl TJlric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and Invept? and yet methought 
Tlirough my fast tears, though they were tliick and 

warm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I could not 
See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
Together wth the people's. 

IDA. 

I thought too 
:if heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Come, 
L«-.t us retire : they will bo here anon, 
K\uectaiit or the banquet. We will lay 



Aside these noddmg plumes and dragging trains. 

IDA. 

And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels. 
Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear motlier, I am with you. [Exeunt 

Enter Count Siegendorf in full dress, from the 

solemnity^ and Ludwig. 

siegendorf. 

Is he not found ? 
ludwig. 
Strict search is making every where ; and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

siegendorf. 
Where 'sUh-ic? 

ludwig. 
He rode round the other way, 
With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
heard his excellency, with his train, 
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 

Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed. 
siegendorf {to Ludwig). 

See they cease not 
Their quest of him I have described. [Exit Lu i. «vi g ■ 

Oh! Ulric, 
How have I long'd for thee ! 

ULRIC. 

Your wish is granted — 
Behold me ! 

siegendorf. 
I have seen the murderer. 

ULRIC. 

Whom? Where? 

siegendorf. 
The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 

ULRIC. 

You dream. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I live ! and as I hve, I saw him — 
Heard him ! He dared to utter even my name. 

ULRIC. 

What name ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Werner ! H ivas mine. 

ULRIC. 

It must be so 
No more : forget it. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Never ! never ! all 
My destinies were woven in that name . 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb. 
But it may lead me there. 

ULRIC 

To the point — tlie Hungarian? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Listen! — The church was throng'd; the hymn was ra ised' 
*' Te Deum" peal'd from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praise i" 
For one day's peace after thrice ten dread years, 
Each bloodier than the former ; I arose, 
With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and esculcheon'd gallery, I 



WERNER. 



421 



Saw, like a jflash of lightning (for I saw 

A moment, and no more), what struck me sightless 

To all else — the Hungarian's face ; I grew 

Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 

Which curl'd about my senses, and again 

Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 

Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 

ULRIC. 

Continue. 

SIEGENDORF. 

When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge, 
The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 
Which shot along the glancing tide below, 
The decorated street, the long array. 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings, 
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round, 
The roar of rushing thousands, all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind ; although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. 

ITLRIC. 

You saw him 
No more, then ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I look'd, as a dying soldier 
Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
Rut still I saw him not ; but in his stead 

ULRIC. 

What in his stead ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

My eye for ever fell 
[Jpon your dancing crest ; the loftiest, 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
Which overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague. 

ULRIC. 

What 's this to the Hungarian ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Much, for I 
Had almost then forgot him in my son, 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice. 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — " Werner .'" 

ULRIC. 

Utter'd by 

SIEGENDORF. 

Kim ! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 

ULRIC. 

And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

The officious care 
Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause ; 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
(The old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me. 

ULRIC. 

But I '11 aid you now. 

SIEGENDORF, 

In what? 

ULRIC. 

In searching for this man, or when he 's found, 

2 o 3 



What shall we do with him ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I know not that. 

ULRIC. 

Then wherefore seek ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Because I cannot rest 
Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted ; nor can be 
Unravell'd, till 

Enter an Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

A stranger, to wait on 
Your Excellency. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Who? 

ATTENDANT. 

He gave no name. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

[The Attendant introduces Gabor, and af 
terwards exit. 

Ah! 

GABOR. 

'T is, then, Werner ! 
SIEGENDORF {haughtily). 
The same you knew, sir, by that name ; and you ? 

GABOR {looking round). 
I recognise you both ; father and son. 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I have sought you, and have found you ; you are charge- 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
A crime as [He pauses 

GABOR. 

Give it utterance, and then 
I '11 meet the consequences. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You shall do so — 
Unless 

GABOR. 

First, who accuses me ? 

SIEGTCNDORF. 

All things. 
If not all men : the universal rumour — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the time- - 
And every speck of circumstance, unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

GABOR. 

And on me only ? 
Pause ere you answer: is no other name. 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Trifling villain . 
Who play'st with thine own guilt ? Of all that breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slandci . 
But I will talk no further with a wretch. 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

GABOR. 

*T is tais© ' 

SIEGENDORF. 

Who says so ? 



422 



BYRONS WORKS. 



GABOR. 
SIEGE>'DORF. 

And how disprove it ? 

GABOR. 



By 



The presence of the murderer. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

Name him! 

GABOR. 

He 

May have more names than one. Your lordship had so 
Once on a time. 

SIEGE>'DORF. 

If you mean me, I dare 
Your utmost. 

GABOR. 

You may do so, and in safety : 
I know the assassin. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Where is he ? 
GABOR {pointing to Ulric). 

Beside you ! 
[Ulric rushes forwccrd to attack Gabor ; 
SiEGEKDORF interposes. 

SIEGESDORF. 

Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 

These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 

[He turns to Ulric. 
rjlric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
1 could not deem it earth-bom : but, be cjdm ; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 

GABOR, 

l/ook at him, and then hear me. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

{First to Gaeor, and then looking at Ulric). 
I hear thee. 

My God ! you look 

ulric. 
How? 

SIEGES^DORF. 

As on tiiat dread night 
When we met in tne garden. 

TTLRic {composes himself ). 
It is nothing. 

GABOR. 

County you are bound to hear me. I came hither 
Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
Amidst the people in the church, I dreara'd not 
To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes ; but you have caFd me. 
And ^»'e have met. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

Go on, sir. 

GABOR. 

Ere I do so. 

Allow me to mquire who profited 

By Stralenheim's death ? Was 't I — as poor as ever ; 

And poorer by suspicion on my name. 

The baron lost in that last outrage neither 

Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought — 

A life which stood between the claims of others 

To honours and estates, scarce less than princely. 



SI5GE>-rORF. 

These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
To me than to my son. 

GABOR. 

I can't help that. 
But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us. 
I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — Dare you protect me 'f 
Dare you command me? 

[SiEGE>-D0RF first looks at the Hungarian, and 
then at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre, and 
is drawing lines with it on the floor — still in u 
sheath. 
ULRIC {looks at his father, and says) 

Let the man go on ! 

GABOR. 

I am unarm'd, count — ^bid your son lay down 
His sabre. 

ULRIC {offers it to him contemptuously). 
Take it. 

GABOE.. 

No, sir ; 't is enough 
That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

ULRIC (casts the sabre from him in contempt). 
It — or some 
Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
Once, when disarm'd and at my mercy. 

GABOR. 

True— 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not mine own. 

ULRIC. 

Proceed. 
The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? 

{To SlEGENDOitJ 
SIEGENDORF {takes his son by the hand). 
INIy son ! I know mine own innocence — and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

GAEOR. 

I will not detain you 
By speaking of myself much ; I began 
Life early — and am what the world has made me. 
At Frankfort, on the Oder, where I pass'd 
A ^vinter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
To hear related a strange circumstance. 
In February last. A martial force, 
Sent by the state, had, after strong resistance 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hostile camp. — They proved, 
However, not to be so — but banditti, 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the furests 
Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
Many amongst them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 
And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 



[ - — — 

WERNER. 423 


Of the free tonii of Frankfort. Of their fate , 


My pm-se, though slender, with you — you refused it. 


I know no more. 


SIEGEiVDORF. 


SIEGEJJDORF. 


Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 


And what is this to ITlric ? 


That thus you urge it ? 


GABOR. 


GABOR. 


Amongst them there was said to be one man 


Still you owe me something, 


Of wonderful endowments : — birth and fortune, 


Though not for that— and I owed you my safety. 


Youth, strength, and bea-ity, almost superhuman, 


At least my seeming safety— when the slaves 


And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 


Of Stralenheim pursued me on the gro'mds 


His by the public rumour ; and his sway, 


That I had robb'd him. 


Not only over his associates but 


SIEGENDORF. 


His judges, was attributed to witchcraft. 


I conceal'd you — I, 


Such was his influence :— I have no gi-eat faith 


Whom, and whose house, you arraign, reviving vipet ' 


In any magic save that of the mine — 


GABOR. 


I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 


I accuse no man — save in my defence. 


Was roused with various feelings to seek out 


You, count! have made yourself accuser— judge — 


This prodigy, if only to behold him. 


Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 


SIEGENUOFvF. 


Be just, and / '11 be merciful. 


And did you so ? 


SIEGENDORF. 


GABOR. 


You merciful! 


You '11 hear. Chance favour'd me: 


You ! base calumniator ! 


A popular affray in the public square 


GABOR. 


Drew crowds together— it was one of those 


I. 'Twill rest 


Occasions, where men's souls look out of them, 


With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me— 


And show them as they are — even in their faces : 


In secret passages known to yourself. 


The moment my eye met his— I exclaim'd 


You said, and to none else. At dead of night. 


'•-Tliis is the man !" though he was then, as since. 


Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 


With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 


Of tracing back my v/ay — I saw a glimmer 


I )iad not err'd, and watch' d him long and nearly : 


Through distant crannies of a twinkUng hght. 


I noted do^vn his form — his gesture — features, 


I foUow'd it, and reach'd a door— a secret 


Stature and bearing — and amidst them all. 


Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where. 


'Midst every natural and acquired distinction. 


With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 


I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 


As much as made a crevice of the fastening. 


And gladiator's heart. 


I look'd through, and beheld a purple bed. 


ULRic [smiling). 


And on it Stralenheim ! — 


The tale sounds well. 


SIEGEXDORF. 


GABOR. 


Asleep! And yet 


And may sound better.— He appear'd lo me 


You slew him — wTetch ! 


One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 


GABOR. 


As she doth to the daring — and on whom 


He was aheady slain. 
And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 


The fates of otliers oft depend ; besides. 


An indescribable sensation drew me 


Blood became ice. 


Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 


SIEG£ND0RF. 


Was to be fix'd by him — There I was wrong. 


But he was all alone ! 


SIEGEJJDORF. 


You saw none else ! You did not see the 


And may not be right now. 


[He pauses from agitation. 


GABOR. 


GABOK. 


I foUow'd him — 


No; 


Solicited his notice — and obtain'd it — 


JTe, whom you dare not name— nor even I 


Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 


Scarce dare to recollect — was not then in 


To leave the city privately — we left it 


The chamber. 


Together — and together we arrived 


SIEGEXDORF {tO UlRIC). 


In the poor toviTi where Werner was concealed, 


Then, my boy ! thou art gijiltless still- 


And Stralenheim was succour'd Now we are on 


Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 


The verge — dare you hear further ? 


Do thou as much ! 


SIEGEyDORF. 


GABOR. 


I must do so— 


Be patient ! I can not 


Or I have heard too much. 


Recede now, though it shake the very walls 


GABOR. 


Which frown above us. You remember, or 


I saw in you 


If not, your son does,— that the locks were change*! 


A man above his station — and if not 


Beneath his chief inspection — on the mom 


So high, as now I find you, in my then 


Which led to this same night : how he had enter'd 


Conceptions — 'twas that I had rarely seen 


He best knows— but within an antechamber, 


IMen such as you appear'd in height of mind, 


The door of which was half ajar — I saw 


[n the most high of worldly rank ; you were 


A man who wash'd hifl bloody hands, and oft 


Poor — fcven to all save rags — I would have shared 

.-— 


With stem and anxious glance gazed back udc* 



424 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh ! God of fathers ! 

GABOR. 

I beheld his features 
As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
Distinct — as I beheld them — though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ; — but it was sc- 
When I first charged him with the crime : — so lately. 

SIEGEKDORF. 

This is so 

GABOR {interrupting him). 
Nay — but hear me to the end ! 
Now you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Betray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short poniard 
(Having left my sword without), I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I turn'd, and fled — i' the dark : chance, rather than 
Skill, made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept — if I 
Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief sleep — 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke — 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out ! 

GABOR. 

'T is not n^ fault, 
If I have read it. — Well ! I fled and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me, and have found me — now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

SIEGENDORF {after a pattxe). 

Indeed ! 

GABOR. 

IS it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Neither — I was weighing 
The value of your secret. 

GABOR. 

You shall know it 
At once — when you were poor, and I, though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I ofFer'd you 
My pu!rfe — you would not share it : — I '11 be franker 
With j'ou ; you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The miperial powers— ycu understand me ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes.— 

GABOR. 

Noi quite. You think me venal, and scarce true : 
'T is no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present ; you shall aid me ; 
' would have aided vou — and also have 



Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 

Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said- 

SIEGENDORF. 

Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation ? 
GABOR {casts his eye on Ulric, who is leaning against 
a pillar). 
If I should do SO ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
This tower. [Opens a turret door. 

GABOR {hesitatingly). 
This is the second safe asylum 
You have offer'd me. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And was not the first so ? 

GABOR. 

I know not that even now — but will approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone — and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim — there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I will be so — 
My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further. 

GABOR. 

I '11 take it for so much. 

SIEGENDORF {points to Ulric's sobre, still upon 
the ground). 

Take also that — 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

GABOR {takes up the sabrs). 
I will ; and so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 
[Gabor goes into the turret, which Siegendorf closet, 
SIEGENDORF {advances to Ulric). 

Now, Count Ulric! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou ? 

ULRIC. 

His tale is true. 

SIEGENDORF. 

True, monster ! 

ULRIC. 

Most true, father; 

And you did well to listen to it : what 

We know, we can provide against. He must 

Be silenced, 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ay, with half of my domains ; 
And with the other half, could he and thoti 
Unsay this villany. 

ULRIC. 

It is no time 
For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

How so ? 

ULRIC. 

As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
As never to have hit on this before ? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? or had the prince's household been 



WERNER. 



42. 



T^cn summon' d, would the cry for the police 
Bif.en left to such a stranger? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way? Or could you., Werner,, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Hav« fled — unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you — 
Doubting if you were false or feeble ; I 
Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Parricide ! no less 
Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

ULRIC. 

Father, do not raise 
The devil you cannot lay, between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While you were tortured 
Could /be calm? Think you that I have heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling ? you 
Have taught me feeling for you and myself; 
For whom or what else did you ever teach it ? 

SIEGENDORF. 



Oh ! my dead father's 



't is working now. 



ULRIC. 

Let it work on ! the grave will keep it down ! 

Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 

To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 

Which winds its blind but living path beneath you. 

Yet hear me still ! — If you condemn me, yet 

Remember who hath taught me once too often 

To listen to him ! TVho proclaim'd to me 

That there were crimes made venial by the occasion ? 

That passion was our nature ? that the goods 

Of heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 

^^^710 show'd me his humanity secured 

By his nerves only ? Who deprived me of 

All power to vindicate myself and race 

In open day ? By his disgrace which stamp'd 

(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 

Himself— a felon's brand ! The man who is 

At once both warm and weak, invites to deeds 

He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 

That I should act what you could think ? We have done 

With right or wrong, and now must only ponder 

Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 

Whose life I saved, from iinpulse, as, unknown, 

I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew. 

Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 

Was a rock in our way, which I cut through, 

As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 

And our true destination — but not idly. 

As stranger I preserved' him, and he owed me 

His life; when due, I but resumed the debt. 

Fie, you, and I stood o'er a gulf, wherein 

I have plunged our enemy. Vou kindled first , 

The torch — you show'd the path : now trace me that 

Of safety — or let me ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I have done with life ! 

CTLRIC. 

Let us have done with that which cankers life- 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
59 



No more to learn or hide : I know no fear, 
And have \^-ithin these very walls men who 
(Although you know them not) dare venture all ihingik 
You stand high with the state ; what passes here 
Will not excite her too gre?.t curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me : 
We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric. 

SIEGENDORF (solus). 

Am I awake ? are these my father's halls ? 

And yon — my son ? My son ! mini who have ever 

Abhorr'd both mystery and bloM, and yet 

Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 

I must be speedy, or m.ore will be shed — 

The Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 

It seems . I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool • 

Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 

(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 

Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 

To be the father of fresh crimes — no less 

Than of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 

[Exit into the turret, closing the door after hinu 



SCENE II. 

The Interior of the Turret. 
Gabor and Siegendorf. 

GABOR. 

Who calls ? 

siegendorf. 
I — Siegendorf! Take these, and fly ' 
Lose not a moment ! 

[Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, an.i 
thrusts them into Gabor's hand. 

GABOR. 

What am I to do 
With these ? 

siegendorf. 
Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard. 
And prosper ; but delay not — or you are lost I 

GABOR. 

You pledged your honour for my safety ! 
siegendorf. 

And 
Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls. 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
Or you '11 be sMin by 

GABOR. 

Is it even so ? 
Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count. 
You sought this fatal interview ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I did: 
Let it not be more fatal still : — Begone ! 

GABOR. 

By the same path I enter'd ? 

SIEGENDORF, 

Yes ; that 's safe rtili . 
But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom vou have to deal. 



426 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



GABOR. 

I know too well — 
And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
FareweU- [-2^^^"' Gab or. 

siEGENDORF {solus and hstemng). 
He hath clear'd the staircase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him ! he is safe ! 

Safe !— Oh, my father's spirit !— I am faint 

[He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with weapons 
drawn. 

ULRIC. 

Despatch !— he 's there ! 

LUDWIG. 

The count, my lord ! 
ULRIC {recognising Siegendorf). 

Vou here, sir ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

yes : if you want another victim, strike ! 

ULRIC {seeing him stript of his jewels). 
Where is the ruffian who hath plund^r'd you ? 
Vassals, despatch in search of him ! You see 
'T was as I said, the wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom! 
Away ! I '11 follow you forthwith. 

[Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric. 
What's this? 
Where is the villain ? 

siegendorf. 
There are two, sir ; which 
Aie you in quest of? 

ULRIC. 

Let us hear no more 
Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

siegendorf. 

He 's gone. 

ULRIC. 

With your connivance ? 
siegendorf. 

With 
M» fullest, freest aid. 

ULRIC. 

Then fare yoM well ! 

[Ulric is going. 

SIEGENDORF. 

iMop ! I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, Uhic ! 
V\''ill you then leave me ? 

ULRIC 

What ! remain to be 
Denouncea — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By your mherent weakness, half-humanily. 
Selfish remorse, and temporisijig pity, 
Tliac sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wTctch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I never had one ; 
Afirt would you ne'er had borne the useless name ! 



Where will you go ? I would not serd you forth 
Without protection. 

ULRIC 

Leave that unto mo. 
I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains : a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 

SIEGENDORF. 

The foresters ! 
With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frank 
fort? 

ULRIC. 

Yes — men — who are worthy of the name ! Go tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been k' J 
With Wallenstein ! 

Enter Josephine and Ida. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What is 't we hear ? My Sieg'.rJorf • 
Thank Heaven, I see you safe ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Safe! 

IDA. 

Yes, dear f>'her 

SIEGENDORF. 

No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What 
Means my good lord ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

That you have given ]' : i 
To a demon ! 

IDA {taking Ulric's hand). 
Who shall dare say this of U ..> = 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that hiiA 

IDA {stooping to kiss it), 
I 'd kiss it off, though it were mine ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

It .f n 

ULRIC 

Away ! it is your father's ! [H xit Ulric. 

IDA. 

Oh, great Xi-A I 
And I have loved this man ! 

\lnfL falls senseless — Josephine stands speecntet 
with horror. 

siegendorf. 

The wretch hath slam 
Them bolTi ! — my Josephine ! we are now alono ! 
Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
I In mine !— The race of Siegendorf is past! 



( 427 ) 

Kilt Hefovtnetr EvmwUvmtrf; 

A DRAMA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



This production is founded partly on the story of a 
Novel, called " The Three Brothers," published many 
years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's " Wood Demon" 
was also taken — and partly on the "Faust" of the great 
Goethe. The present publication contains the first two 
Parts only, and the opening chorus of the third. The 
rest may perhaps appear hereafter. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 
Stranger, afterwards C^sar. 
Arnold. 

BotJRBON. 

Philibert. 
Cellini. 

WOMEN. 
Bertha. 
Olimpia. 



Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, 
Peasants, etc. 



THE 

DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



PART I. 



SCENE I.— A Forest. 
Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 

BERTHA. 

Out, hunchback ! 

ARNOLD. 

I was born so, mother ! 
bertha. 

Out! 
Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sons 
The sole abortion ! 

ARNOLD. 

Would that I had been so. 
And never seen the light ' 

bertha. 

I would so too ! 
Hut as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy best. 
That back of thine may bear its burthen ; 'tis 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

ARNOLD. 

It bears its burthen ; — but, my heart! will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother? 



I love, or at the least, I loved you : nothing, 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed mp — do not kill me. 
bertha. 

Yes — I nursed the* 
Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee, 
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence. 
And gather wood ! 

ARNOLD. 

I will : but when I bring it, 
Speak to me kindly, Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
Our milk has been the same. 

bertha. 

As is the hedgehog's 
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until the milltmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
Call not thy brothers brethren ! call me not 
Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out ! 

[Exit Bertha 

ARNOLD {solus). 

Oh mother ! She is gone, and I must do 

Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 

I would fulfil it, could I only hope 

A kind word m return. What shall I do ? 

[Arnold begins to cut v:ood : in doing Ms ht 
wounds one of his hands. 
My labour for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curs«s will be my meed now 
At home. — What home? I have no home, no km, 
No kind — nor made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too, 
Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them as they have stung mp ' 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
From her who bore me, would still reconcile me 
Even to this hatefiil aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spring, and scoops to u:asn 
his hand : he starts back. 
They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows mc 
What she hath made me. I will not look on ir, 
Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wreicji 
That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountam to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. He pause* 

And shall I Uve on. 



428 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A burthen to the earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me into Ufe ? Thou blood. 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for mjTiads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
The gi-een bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground^ with 

the point upwards. 

Now 't is set. 
And 1 can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but 
In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
The falling leaves my monument ; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fam would fall ! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, 

his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, 

vihich seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! the waters stir. 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What 's here ? A mist ! no more ? — 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands 

gazing upon it : it is dispelled, and a tall 

black man comes towards him. 

ARNOLD. 

What would you ? Speak ! 
Spirit or man ? 

STRANGER. 

As man is both, why not 
Say both in one ? 

ARNOLD. 

Your form is man's, and yet 
Yo'.i may be devil. 

STRANGER. 

So many men are that 
Which is so call'd or thought, that you n.ay add me 
To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
But come : you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
Your purpose 

ARNOLD. 

You have interrupted me. 

STRANGER. 

What is that resolution which can e'er 

Re interrupted ? If I be the devil 

Vou desm, a single moment would have made you 

Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 

Aud yet my coming saves you. 

ARNOLD. 

I said not 
Vou were the demon, Jut that your approach 
Was I'ke one. 



STRANGER. 

Unless you keep company 
With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society), you can't teU how h<^ approaches ; 
And for his aspect, lor>k upon the fountain. 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Looks likest what the boors beheve to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

ARNOLD. 

Do you — dare j'&« 
To taunt me with my bom deformity ? 

STRANGER. 

Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 

Cloven foot of thine, or the switt dromedary 

With thy sublime of humps, tht itnimals 

Would revel in the compliment. And yet 

Both beings are more swift, mi-re strong, more mighty 

In action and endurance than tnyself, 

And aU the fierce and fair of the same kind 

Willi thee. Thy form is natural : 't was only 

Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 

The gifts which are of others upon man. 

ARNOLD. 

Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot, 
When he spurns high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship. 
The hehnless dromedary : — and I '11 bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

STRANGER. 

I will. 

ARNOLD {with surprise). 
Thou canst ? 

STRANGER. 

Perhaps. Would you aught else 5 

ARNOLD. 

Thou mockest me. 

STRANGER. 

Not I. Why should I mock 
What all are mocking ? That 's poor sport, methinks. 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester 
Hunts not the WTetched coney, but the boar. 
Or wolf, or Hon, leaving pahry game 
To petty burghers, w^ho leave once a-year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
Now / can mock the mightiest. 

ARNOLD. 

Then waste not 
Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

STRANGER. 

Your thoughts 
Are not far fi-om me. Do not send me back : 
I am not so easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 

ARNOLD. 

What %vilt thou do for me ? 

STRANGER. 

Change 
Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you 
Or form you to your v/ish in any shape. 

ARNOLD. 

Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFOR^'^.D. 



42? 



STRANGER. 

I '11 show thee 
The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 
Thy choice. 

ARNOLD. 

On what condition ? 

STRANGER. 

There 's a question ! 
An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

ARNOLD. 

No ; I will not. 
I must not compromise my soul. 

STRANGER. 

What soul, 
Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 

ARNOLD. 

'T is an aspiring one, whatever the tenement 

[n which it is mislodged. But name your compact : 

Must It be sign'd in blood ? 

STRANGER. 

Not in your own. 

ARNOLD. 

Whose blood then ? 

STRANGER. 

We will talk of that hereafter. 
But I '11 be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your o^vn \vill, no contract save your deeds. 
A re you content ? 

ARNOLD. 

I take thee at thy word. 

STRANGER. 

Now then ! — 

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
turns to Arnold. 
A Uttle of your blood. 

ARNOLD. 

For what ? 

STRANGER. 

I'o mingle with the magic of the waters, 
And make the charm effective. 

ARNOLD {holding out his wounded arm). 
Take it all. 

STRANGER. 

Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 

[TTie Stranger takes some of Arnold's blood in 
his hand, and casts it into the fountain. 

Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power ! 
Rise to your duty — 

This is the hour ! 
Walk lovely and pliant ! 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz mountain.' 
Come as ye were. 

That our eyes may behold 
The model in air 

Of the form I wall mould, 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd — 

1 Tills is a well-known German superstition — a gigantic 
«!ia,low i»rttluced by reflection on the Brockeo. 
2P 



Such his desire is, [Pointnig to Arnold. 

Such my command ! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the Stoic 

Or Sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor. 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman's picture, 

Who breathed to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power ! 
Up to your duty — 

This is the hour ! 
[Various Phantoms arise from the waters, and 
pass in succession before the Stranger and 
Arnold. 

ARNOLD. 

What do I see ? 

STRANGER. 

The black-eyed Roman, with 
The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he made not Rome's, wlnle Rome became 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 

ARNOLD. 

The phantom 's bald ; my quest is beauty. Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 

STRANGER. 

His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it or reject. 
I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

ARNOLD. 

I will fight too. 
But not as a mock Cassar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

STRANGER. 

Then you are far more difficult to please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[The Phantom of Julius CcBsar disappearu 

ARNOLD. 

And can it 
Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone 
And left no footstep ? 

STRANGER. 

There you err. His substance 
Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 't is no more than yours, 
Except a little longer and less crooked 
I' the sun. Behold another ! 

[A second Phantom pass&4 

ARNOLD. 

Who is he ? 

STRANGER. 

He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

ARNOLD. 

He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ' 

STRAN3EK. 

Such was the curled son of Clini»-» , — wonldbt ^«m 



430 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Invest thee with his form ? 

ARNOLD. 

Would that I had 
Been bom with it ! But since I may choose further, 
I will look further. 

[The Shade of Alcibiades disappears. 

STRAJy'^ER. 

Lo ! Behold again ! 

ARNOLD. 

What! thatloM swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect. 
The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

STRANGER. 

And yet he was 
The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue, 
^ut you reject him ? 

ARNOLD. 

If his form could bring me 
Thai which redeem'd it — no. 

STRANGER. 

I have no power 
To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

ARNOLD. 

No. I was not bom for philosophy. 

Though I have that about me which has need on 't. 

Let him fleet on. 

STRANGER. 

Be air, thou hemlock-drinker! 
[7'Ae Shadow of Socrates disappears ; another rises. 

ARNOLD. 

What 's here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard 

And manly aspect look like Hercules, 

Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus ^ 

Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 

Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 

As if he knew the worthlessness of those 

For whom he had fought. 

STRANGER. 

It was the man who lost 
The ancient world for love. 

ARNOLD. 

I cannot blame him. 
Since I have risk'd my soul, because I find not 
That which he exchanged the earth for. 

STRANGER. 

Since so far 
You seem congenial, will you wear his features ? 

ARNOLD. 

No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

STRANGER. 

Hence, Triumvir ! 
1 hv Cleopatra 's waiting. 

[The Shade of Antony disappears ; another rises. 

ARNOLD. 

Who is this ? 
W\io truly looketh like a demigod, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature. 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all tliat nameless bearing of his limbs, 
VVliich he wears as ihc sun his rays — a something 



Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashihg 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human only ? 

STRANGER. 

Let the earth speak, 
If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more sohd gold that form'd his um. 

ARNOLD. 

Who was this glory of mankind ? 

STRANGER. 

The shame 
Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war—. 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

ARNOLD. 

Yet one shadow more. 
STRANGER {addressing the Shadow). 
Get thee to Lamia's lap ! 

[The Shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanisnet ■ 
another rises. 

STRANGER. 

I '11 fit you still. 
Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadow of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 

animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

ARNOLD. 

Content ! I will fix here. 

STRANGER. 

I must commend 
Your choice. The god-like son of the sea-goddess. 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus roll'd o'er sands of gold. 
Softened by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind. 
All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold them 1 
And him — as he stood by Polyxena, 
With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride. 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast viigin, whose young hand 
Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

ARNOLD. 

I gaze upon him as 
As if 1 were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

STRANGER. 

You have done well. The greatest 
Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

ARNOLD. 

Come! Be qv'rf ! 
I am impatient. 

STRANGER. 

As a youthful beauty 
Before her glass. You both see what is not. 
But dream it is what must be. 

ARNOLD. 

Must I wait 7 

STRANGER. 

No ; tlat were pity. But a word or two: 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



4r:;} 



His stature is twelve cubits : would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak? 

ARNOLD. 

Why not ? 

STRANGEK. 

Glorious ambition ! 
I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David ; 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
A httle less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth ; and their ciu-sed engines, 
Their culverms and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 

ARNOLD. 

• Then let it be as thou deera'st best. 

STRANGER. 

Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou see'st, 
And strong as what it was, and 

ARNOLD. 

I ask not 

Far valour, since deformity is daring. 

It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 

By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 

Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 

A spur in its halt movements, to become 

All that the others cannot, in such things 

As still are free to both, to compensate 

For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 

They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 

And oft, hke Timour the lame Tartar, win them. 

SRANGER. 

Well spoken ! And thou doubtless wilt remain 
Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to encase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it ? 

ARNOLD. 

Had no power presented me 
The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may, to make 
Its way, with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a moimtain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
A hateful and unsightly mole-hill to 
The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh- 
Not of love, but despair ; nor sought to win. 
Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
In turn, because of this Nale croolced clog. 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape : — rav dam beheld my shane was hopeless. 



Had she exposed m.e, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of iife, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance, 
Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
Master of my own hfe, and quick to quit it ; 
And he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

STRANGER. 

Decide between 
What you have been, or will be. 

ARNOLD. 

I have done so. 
You have opon'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved, 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste! haste! 

STRANGER. 

And what shall / wear? 

ARNOLD. 

Surely he 
Who can command all fo- ms, will choose the highest. 
Something superior even 'o that which was 
Pehdes now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris : — or — still higher— 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

STRANGER. 

Less will content me ; 
For I too love a change. 

ARNOLD. 

Your aspect is 
Dusky, but not uncomely. 

STRANGER. 

If I chose, 
I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear ^ 
But I have worn it long enough of late, 
And now I '11 take your figure. 

ARNOLD. 

Mine ! 

STRANGER. 

Yes. You 
Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha 
Yotir mother's offsprmg. People have their teisteg, 
You have yours — I mine. 

ARNOLD. 

Despatch! despatch! 

STRANGER. 

Even BO. 

[The Stranger takes some, earth and mouUit 
it along the turf; and then addressts thd 
Phantom of Achilles. 

Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o er Troy : 



132 BYRON'S WORKS. 


From the red earth, Uke Adam,* 


It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 


Thy Ukeness I shape, 


ARNOLD. 


As the Being who made him. 


Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 


Whose actions I ape. 


Which is now set m gold, as jewels should be. 


Thou clay, be all glowing. 


STRANGER. 


Till the rose in his cheek 


But if I give another form, it must be 


Be as fair as, when blowing, 


By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 


It wears its first streak ! 


Who make men without women's aid, have Jong 


Ye violets, I scatter. 


Had patents for the same, and do not love 


Now turn into eyes ! 


Your interlopers. The devil may take men. 


And thou sunshiny water, 


Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 


Of blood take the guise ! 


Of the original workmanship : — and therefore 


Let these hyacinth boughs 


Some one must be found to assume the shape 


Be his long, flowing hair, 


You have quitted. 


And wave o'er his brows, 


ARNOLD. 


As thou wavest in air ! 


Who would do so ? 


Let his heart be this marble 


STRANGER. 


I tear from the rock ! 


That I know not* 


But his voice as the warble 


And therefore I must. 


Of birds on yon oak ! 


ARNOLD. 


Let his flesh be the purest 


You! 


Of mould, in which grew 


STRANGER. 


The hly-root surest, 


I said it, ere 


And drank the best dew ! 


You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 


Let his Umbs be the Ughtest 


ARNCLD. 


Which clay can compound ! 


True. I forget all things in the new joy 


And his aspect the brightest 


Of this immortal change. 


On earth to be found ! 


STRANGER. 


Elements, near me, 


In a few moments 


Be mingled and stirr'd. 


I will be as you were, and you shall see 


Know me and hear me. 


Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 


And leap to my word ! 


ARNOLD. 


Sunbeams, awaken 


I would be spared this. 


This earth's animation ! 


STRANGER. 


'T is done ! He hath taken 


But it cannot be. 


His stand in creation ! 


What ! shrink already, being what you are. 


[Arnold falls senseless; his sonl passes into 


From seeing what you were ? 


the shape of Achilles, which rises from the 


ARNOLD. 


ground; while the phantom has disappeared, 


Do as thou wilt. 


part by part, as the figure was formed from 


STRANGER {to the late form o/ Arnold, erZencted on 


the earth. 


the earth). 


ARNOLD (in his new form). 


Clay ! not dead, but soulless ! 


I k)ve, and I shall be beloved ! Oh life ! 


Though no man would choose thee. 


At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 


An immortal no less 


STRANGER. 


Deigns not to refuse thee. 


Stop! 


Clay thou art: and unto spirit 


What shall become of your abandoned garment, 


All clay is of equal merit. 


Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness. 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

ARNOLD. 


Fire ! without which nought can ive ; 


Fire ! but in which nought can hve, 


Who cares ? Let wolves 


Save the fabled salamander, 


And vultures ,ake it, if they wall. 

STRANGER. 


Or immortal souls which wander. 
Praying what doth not forgive. 


And if 


Howling for a drop of water. 


1 hey du, and are not scared by it, you '11 say 


Burning in a quenchless lot : 


ll must be peace time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 


Fire ! the only element 


Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worn.. 


ARNOLD. 


Save the worm which dieth not. 


Let us but leave it there. 


Can preserve a moment's form, 


N'.' matter what becomes on 'l. 


But must with thyself be blent : 


STRANGER. 


Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughtei . 


That 's ungracious, 
[f not ungratetul. Whatsoe'er it be, 


Fire ! creation's first-born daughter, 
And destruction's threaten'd son, 




When Heaven with the world hath Jc^w 
Fire ! assist me to renew 


1 Adam means "led eartk," from which the first man was 


fo«me»T 

1 


Life in what Ues m my view 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



4.33 



Stiff and cold ! 
His resurrection rests with me arid you ! 
One little marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same ; 
But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
[An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood, and rests 
on the brow of the body. The Stranger disap- 
pears : the body rises. 

ARNOLD {in his new form). 
Oh\ horrible! 

STRANGER {in Arnold's late shape). 
What ! tremblest thou ? 

ARNOLD. 

Not so — 
. merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest ! 

STRANGER. 

To the world of shadows. 
But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou? 

ARNOLD. 

Must thou be my companion ? 

STRANGER. 

Wherefore not ? 
Your betters keep worse company. 

ARNOLD. 

My betters ! 

STRANGER. 

Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of your new form : 
I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 's well ; 
You improve apace : — two changes in an instant, 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with me : indeed you '11 find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant ? 

ARNOLD. 

Where the world 
Is tJjickest, that I may behold it in 
lis working. 

STRANGER. 

That 's to say, where there is war 
And woman in activity. Let 's see ! 
Spain — ^Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric with all its Moors. In very truth, 
There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
Tugging as usual at each others' hearts. 

ARNOLD. 

I have heard great things of Rome. 

STRANGER. 

A goodly choice — 
And scarce a better to be found on earth , 
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
Of the old Vandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

ARNOLD. 

How 

Shall we proceed ? 

STRANGER. 

Like gallants on good coursers. 
What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better, 
Since Phaeton was upset mto the Po. 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pagts, with four coal-black Horses. 

ARNOLD. 

A noble sight ! 
2 p *2 60 



STRANGER. 

And of 
A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlani race of Araby, 
With these ! 

ARNOLD. 

The mighty stream, which volumes high 
From their proud nostrils, bums the very air ; 
And sparks of flame, lilce dancing fire-flies, whsel 
Around their manes, as common insects swann 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

STRANGER. 

Mount, my lord, 
They and I are your servitors. 

ARNOLD. 

And these. 
Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 

STRANGER. 

You shall baptize them. 

ARNOLD. 

What ! in holy water ? 

STRANGER. 

Why not ? The deeper sinner, better saint. 

ARNOLD. 

They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons ? 

STRANGER. 

True ; the devil 's always ugly ; and your beauty 
Is never diabohcal. 

ARI^OLD. 

I '11 call him 
Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest. 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not. 
But looks as serious though serene as night, 
He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king. 
Whose statue turns a harper once a-day. 
And you? 

STRANGER. 

I have ten thousand names, and twice 
As many attributes ; but as I wear 
A human shape, will take a human name. 

ARNOLD. 

More human than the shape (though it was mine oncei 
I trust. 

STRANGER. 

Then call me Caesar. 

ARNOLD. 

Why, that name 
Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

STRANGER. 

And therefore fittest for 
The devil m disguise — since so you deem me, 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

ARNOLD. 

WeU then, 
Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Shall be plain Arnold still. 

CAESAR. 

We '11 add a title- 
" Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 

ARNOLD. 

Or in an order for a battle-field. 



434 Bi^RON'S WORKS. 


ca:sAR {sings). 


CSLSK-R. 


To horse ! lo Iforse ! my coal-black steed 


Your obedient, humble sei vaaU 


Paws the ground and snuffs the air ! 


ARNOLD. 


There's not a foal of Arab's breed 


Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on. 


More knows whom he must bear ! 


Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 


On tlie hill he ^^•ill not tire, 


C^SAR. 


Swifter as it waxes higher ; 


And where wouldst thou be ? 


In the marsh he will not slacken, 


ARNOLD. 


On the plain be overtaken ; 


Oh, at peace— in peace 


In ihe wave he \s-ill not sink, 


C^SAR. 


Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 


And where is that which is so ? From the star 


In the race he vrill not pant^ 


To the \\-inding worm, all Ufe is motion, and 


In the combat he '11 not faint ; 


In life commotion is the extremest point 


On the stones he will not stumble, 


Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 


Time nor toil shaU make him humble : 


A comet, and, destro}-ing as it sweeps 


In the stall he will not stiffen, 


The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its waj 


But be winged as a griffin. 


Living upon the death of other things, 


Only flying with his feet : 


But still, hke them, must hve and die, the subject 


And will not such a voyage be sweet? 


Of something which has made it live and die. 


Merrily ! merrily ! never unsound. 


You must obey what all obey, the rule 


Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground! 


Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 


From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 


Rebellion prospers not. 


For we '11 leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 


ARNOLD. 


\They mount their horses, arid disappear. 


And when it prospers 




CJESAR. 




'T is no rebellion. 


SCENE II. 


ARNOLD. 

Win it prosper now? * 


A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 


C-ESAR. 




The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault, 
And by the dav^m there will be work. 


Arnold and C^sar. 


C^SAR. 


ARNOLD. 


Feu are well enter'd now. 


Alas! 


ARNOLD. 


And shall the cily j-ield ? I see the giant 


Ay ; but my path 


Abode of the true God, and his true saint. 


Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 


Samt Peter, rear its dome and cross into 


Of blood. 


That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 


CiESAR, 


Which his blood made a badge of glory and 


Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 


Of joy (as once of torture unto hiin. 


'5Tjou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 


God and God's son, man's sole and only refuge). 


And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 


C^SAR. 


Late constable of France ; and now to be 


'T is there, and shall be. 


Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 


ARNOLD. 


Under its emperors, and — changing sex. 


What? 


Not sceptre, a hermaphrodite of empire — 


C^SAR. 


Ijidy of the world. 


The crucifix 


ARNOLD. 


Above, and many altar shrines below, 


HowoW? What! are there 


Also some culverins upon the walls. 


New worlds ? 


And harquebusses, and what not, besides 


C^SAR. 


The men who are to kindle them to death 


To you. You '11 find there are such shortly, 


Of other men. 


By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 


ARNOLD. 


From one half of the world named a whole new one. 


And those soai-ce mortal arches. 


Becausr you know no better than the duU 


PUe above pile of everlasting wall, 


And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 


The theatre where emperors and their subjects 


ARNOLD. 


(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 


I '11 trust them. 


The battles of the monarchs of the wild 


CiESAR. 


And wood, the Hon and his tusky rebels 


Do ! They wll deceive you sweetly, 


Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 


And that is better than the bitter truth ! 


In the arena (as right well they might. 




When they had left no human foe uncoi-o^c 


ARNOLD. 

Dog! 

C^SAR. 


Made even the forest pay its tribute of 


Life to their amphitheatre, as well 


Mani 


As Dacia men to die the eternal death 


ARNOLD. 


For a sole instant's pastime, and "Pass or 


DevD 


To a new gladiator !"— iMust it fall ? 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 43o 


CSSAR. 


CiSAR. 


The city or the amphitheatre ? 


It answers better to resolve the alphabet 


The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 


Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 


Both them and me. 


And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist. 


ARNOLD. 


Philosopher, and what not, they have buUt 


To-morrow sounds the assault 


More Babels without new dispersion, than 


With th^ first cock-crow. 


The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 


C^SAR. 


Who fail'd and fled each other. Why ? why, marry 


Which, if it end with 


Because no man could understand his neighbour. 


The evening's first nightingale, will be 


They are wiser nov/, and will not separate 


Something new in the annals of great sieges : 


For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 


For men must have their prey after long toiL 


Their Shibboleth, iheir Koran, Tahnud, their 


ARNOLD. 


Cabala ; their best brick-work, wherewithal 


The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 


They build more 


More beautifully, than he did on Rome 


ARNOLD {interrupting him). 


On the day Remus leapt her wall. 


Oh ! thou everlasting sneeroi ' 


C^SAR. 


Be silent ! How the soldiers' rough strain seems 


I saw him. 


Soften'd by distance to a hymn-Uke cadence ! 


ARNOLD. 


Listen! 


Fou! 


C^SAR. 


C^SAR. 


Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 


Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 


ARNOLD. 


Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 


And demons howl. 


And a worse name. I 'm Caesar and a hunchback 


C^SAR. 


Now. Well! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 


And man too. Let us hsten 


And loved his laurels better as a wig 


I love all music. 


(So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
The world runs on, but we '11 be merry stilL 


Song of the soldiers within. 


I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 


The Black Bands came over 


Slay his o\vn twin, quick-bom of the same womb, 


The Alps and their snow. 


Because he leapt a ditch ('twas then no wall, 


With Bourbon, the rover. 


Whate'er it now be) ; and Rome's earUest cement 


They pass'd the broad Po. 


Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 


We have beaten all foemen, 


Be spUt tm the choked Tiber be as red 


We have captured a king, 


As e'er 't was yellow, it wiU never wear 


We have turn'd back on no men. 


The deep hue of the ocean and the earth. 


And so let us sing ! 


Which the great robber sons of Fratricide 


Here 's the Bourbon for ever ! 


Have made their never- cccising scene of slaughter 


Though penniless all. 


For ages. 


We '11 have one more endeavour 


ARNOLD. 


At yonder old wall. 


But what have these done, their far 


With the Bourbon we '11 gather 


Remote descendants, who have Uved in peace. 


At day-dawn before 


The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 


The gates, and together 


Piety ? 


Or break or climb o'er 


CMSAB.. 


The wall : on the ladder, 


And what had they done whom the old 


As mounts each firm foot. 


Romans o'erswept?— Hark! 


Our shout shall grow gladder, 


ARNOLD. 


And death only be mute. 


They are soldiers singing 


With the Bourbon we '11 mount c*ei 


A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 


The walls of old Rome, 


Of many deaths, it m.ay be of their own. 


And who then shall count o'er 


C^SAR. 


The spoils of each dome "? 


And why should they not sing as well as swans ? 


Up ! up ! with the lily ! 


They are black ones, to be sure. 


And down with the keys . 


ARNOLD. 


In old Rome, the Seven-liilly, 


So, you are leam'd, 
see, too. 


We '11 revel at ease ; 


Her streets shall be gory, 


C5:SAR. 


Her Tiber all red. 


In my grammar, certes. I 


And her temples so noaiy 


Weu educated for a monk of aU times, 


Shall clang with our tread. 


And once I was well versed in the forgotten 


Oh! the Bourbon! the Bourboc' 


Etruscan letters, and— were I so minded— 


The Bourbon for aye ! 


Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 


Oi our song bear the burthen ! 


Your alphabet. 


And fire, fire away ! 


ARNOLD. 


With Spain for the vanguard. 


And wherefore do you not 7 


Our varied host comes ; 



And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's drums ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch'd at their mother ; 
But our leader from France is, 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bouibon! 

Sans country or home. 
We '11 Ibllovv the Bourbon, 

To plunder old Rome. 

C^SAR. 

An mdifFerent song 
For those v?ithin the walls, methinks, to hear. 

ARNOLD. 

Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here comes 

The general wth his chiefs and men of trust. 

A goodly rebel ! 

Erttar ihe Constable Bourbon, '■^cum suis,''^ etc.^etc, etc. 

PHILIBERT. 

How now, noble prince, 
You are not cheerful ? 

BOtJRBON. 

Why should I be so ? 

PHILIBERT. 

Upon the e>e of conquest, such as ours, 
INlost men would be so. 

BOURBON. 

If I were secui-e ! 

PHILIBERT. 

Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of adamant, 
They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 

BOURBON. 

That they will falter, is my least of fears. 
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods 
Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ; — 
But now 

PHILIBERT. 

They are but men who war with mortals. 

BOJRBON. 

True : but those walls have girded in great ages. 

And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 

And present phantom of imperious Rome 

Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 

They flit along the eternal city's rampart. 

And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 

And beckon me away ! 

PHILIBERT. 

So let them ! Wilt thou 
IHim back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 

BOURBON. 

They do not menace me. I could have faced, 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathhke hands. 
And wth their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 



A. loftv battlement. 



PHILIBERT. 

I look upon 

BOURBON. 

And there ! 

rHILTBERT. 

Not even 



A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Shelter'd by the gray parapet, from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who migfe; 
Practise in a cool twiUght. 

BOURBON. 

You are bhnd. 

PHILIBERT. 

If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Be so. 

BOURBOxV. 

A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The hberty of that I would enslave ; 
And the first Caesar with his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement. 

PHILIBERT. 

Then conquer 
The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater, 

BOURBON. 

True : so I will, or perish. 

PHILIBERT. 

You can not. 
In such an enterprise, to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

Count Arnold and C^sar advance. 

C^SAR. 

And the mere men — do they too sweat beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory? 

BOURBON. 

Ah. 
Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master, 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere mormng. 

C^SAR. 

You will find, 
So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

BOURBON. 

And if I do, there will not be a labourer 
More forward, hunchback ! 

C^SAR. 

You may well say so, 
For you have seen that back — as general. 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

BOURBON. 

That 's a fair retort. 
For I provoked it: — but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

C^SAR. 

And if I were, I might have saved myself 
The toil of coming here. 

PHILIBERT. 

Why so? 

C^SAR. 

One half 
Of your brave bands of their own bold accorft 
Will go to him, the other half be sent 
More swiftly, not less surely. 

BOURBON. 

Arnold your 
Slight crooked friend's as snake-Uke in his words' 
As his deeds. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



43' 



CJESAR. 

Your highness much mistakes me. 
rhe first snd,ke was a flatterer — I am none ; 
^nd for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 

BOURBON. 

Yfu are brave, and that 's enough for me : and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that 's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

C^SAR. 

They are but bad company, your highness ; 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

PHILIBERT. 

How now, fello'.v ! 
Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

C^SAR. 

You mean, I speak the truth. 

I '11 lie — it is as easy ; then you '11 praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

BOURBON. 

Philibert ! 
Let mm alone ; he 's brave, and ever has 
Been first with that swart face and mountain shoulder 
In field or storm ; and patient in starvation ; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of license, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish' d, sullen, gnambling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a fuU meal. 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis. 
With which he deems him lich. 

C^SAR. 

It would be well 

II the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

POURBON. 

Be sileri! 

CiESAR. 

Ay, but not idle. Werk yourself with w'*rds ! 
You have few to jwjeak,. 

PHT^IBERT. 

Wnat means the audacious prater ? 

C^SAR. 

To prate, like '.-tlier prophets. 

BOURBON. 

Pnilibert ! 
Why will yju vex him ? Havp we not enough 
To think on ? Arnold! I wU'. lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

ARNOLD. 

I have heaid as much, my lord. 

BOURBON. 

nd you will follow ? - 

ARNOLD. 

Since I must not lead. 

BOURBON. 

'T is necessary, for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the fiist foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step . 

CESAR. 

Upon its topmost, let us hope •• 
So shall he have his full deserts. 



BOURBON. 

The world's 
Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the seven-hill'd city hath 
Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Cnesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well ! 
'T was their turn — now 't is ours ; and let us hope 
That we will fight as well, and i tile much better. 

CJESAF. 

No doubt, the camp 's the school of civic rights. 
What would you make of Rome ? 

BOrREON. 

That wnich it was. 

C^SAR. 

In Alaric's time ? 

BOURBON. 

No, slave ! In the first Csssar's, 
Whose name you bear hke other curs. 

C-ESAR. 

And kings. 
'T is a grea^ name for blood-hounds. 

BOURBON. 

There 's a demoB 
In that iierce rattle-snake thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be sevious ? 

C^SAR. 

On the eve of battle, no ; — 
Tnat were not soldier-like. 'T is for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think 7 
Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape, 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
If the knaves take tu thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

BOURBON. 

You may sneer, since 
'T is lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 

C^SAR. 

I thank you for the freedom ; 't is the only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

BOURBON. 

Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury' . 
But, Philibert, we '11 in to council. Arnold ! 
We would request your presence. 

ARNOLD. 

Prince ! my service 
Is yours, as in the field. 

BOURBON. 

In both, we prize it. 
And yours will be a post of trust at day-break. 

C^SAR. 

And mine ? 

BOURBON. 

To follow glory with the Bourbon. 
Good night ! 

ARNOLD {to C^SAR). 

Prepare our armour for the assault. 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, PniLiiia « , a«* 
ca:sAR {solus). 

Within thvfent! 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Think'si thou that I pass from thee with my presence? 

Or that this crooked coffer, which contain'd 

Thy principle of hfe, is aught to me 

Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 

Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards ! 

This is the consequence of ginng matter 

The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 

And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 

Ever relapsing into its first elements. 

Well ! I must play ^%nth these poor puppets : 't is 

The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 

When I grow weary of it, I have business 

Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem 

Were made for them to look at. 'T were a jest now 

To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 

Unto their ant-hill : how the pismires then 

Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 

From tearing down each others' nests, pipe forth 

One universal orison! Ha! ha! [Exit Cmsx'r. 



PAHT n. 

SCENE I. 

Before the walls of Rome. The assault ; the army in 
motion^ with ladders to scale the walls; Bourbon, 
with a white scarf over his armour, foremost. 

Chorus of Spirits in the air. 

1. 

'T is the mom, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies the silent lark ? 
Whither shrinlcs the clouded sun ? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy ; 
But ^^-ithout there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round wluch yellow Tiber dashes. 
Oh ! ye seven hills ! awaken, 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 

2. 
Hfcdrkcn to the steady stamp ! 
Mars is in their every tramp ! 
Not a step is out of tune. 
As the tides obey the moon ! 
On they march, though to self-slaughter. 
Regular as rolling water, 
W^hose high waves o'ersweep the border 
Of huge moles, but keep their order, 
Breaking only rank by rank. 
Hearken to the annour's clank ! 
Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 
How he glares upon the barrier : 
Look on each step of each ladder, 
As the stripes that streak an adder. 

3. 

Liook upon the bristUng wall, 
Mann'd without an interval ! 
Hound and round, and tier on tier, 
Oannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
)jit match, brU-mouth'd musquetoon, 
<ifap)Bg tc be murderous soon. 



All the warlike gear of old, 
Blix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
Gather hke a locust's crew. 
Shade of Remus ! 't is a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine:—- 
Must its lot be hke to thine ? 

4. 

Near — and near — nearer still, 
AS the earthquake saps the hill. 
First with trembling, hollow motion, 
Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean, 
Then with stronger shock and louder, 
Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 
Onward sweeps the rolUng host ! 
Heroes of the immortal boast ! 
INIighty chiefs ! Eternal shadows ! 
First flowers of the bloody meadows 
Which encompass Rome, the mother 
Of a people without brother ! 
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
Plough the root up of your laurels ? 
Ye who wept o'er Carthage burning. 
Weep not — strilie ! for Rome is mourning i 

5. 
Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations ; 
To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city, 
IMust thou be a theme for pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
Alaric was a gentle foeman. 
Match' d \vith Bourbon's black banditti ! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ! 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the porch 
With thy own hand to thy torch. 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling whh their foot. 

6. 
Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
lUon's children find no Hector ; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
Roma's sire forgot liis mother, 
WTien he slew his gallant twin. 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When he first o'erleapt thy wall. 
Its foundation moum'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 

7. 
Now they reach thee in their anger : 
Fu-e, and smoke, and hellish clangour 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder ! 
Death is in thv walls and under 



1 Scipio, the second Africanus, is said to have repeated* 
verse of Homer, and wept over the burning of Caithpge. H' 
had better have granted it a caoitulation. 



Xow the meeting steel first clashes ; 
Downward then the ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleaming, 
Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier- 
Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! Although thy wall may perish, 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome !-— 
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish, 
Fight as thou wast vTont to vanquish ! 

8. 
Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 
Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's ! 
Yet again, ye shado%vy heroes. 
Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 
Though the son who slew his mother, 
Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 
'T was the Roman curb'd the Roman : — 
Brennus was a baffled foeman. 
Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, 
Rise, for yours are holier charters. 
Mighty gods of temples falling, 
Yet in ruin still appalling ! 
Mightier founders of those altars. 
True and Christian — strike the assaulters! 
Tiber ! Tiber ! let thy torrent 
Show even nature's self abhorrent. 
Let each breathing heart dilated 
Turn, as doth the Uon baited ! 
Rome be crush'd to one Avide tomb, 
But be still the Roman's Rome ! 

Bourbon, Arnold, CiESAR, and others, arrive at the 
foot of the wall. Arnold is about to plant his ladder. 

BOURBON. 

Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 

ARNOLD. 

Not so, my lord. 

BOURBON. 

Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ! I am proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

[A shot strikes him, and Bourbos falls. 

CiESAR. 

And off! 

ARNOLD. 

Eternal powers ! 
rhc host will be appall'd. — But vengeance ! vengeance! 

-BOURBON. 

'T is nothing — lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand and rises : 
but, as he puts his foot on the step, falls again. 

Arnold ! I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well— conceal it ! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

ARNOLD. 

You must be 
Rerao\ed ; the aid aC-.^ — 



BOURBON. 

No, my gallant boy ; 
Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that 1 am but clay. 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 

C^SAR. 

Would not your highness choose to kiss the cross ? 
We have no priest here, but tne hilt of sword 
May serve instead : — it did the same for Bayard. 

BOURSON. 

Thou bitter slave ! ^o name him at this time ! 
But I deserve it. 

ARNOLD [to C^SAr). 

Villain, hold your peace ! 

C^SAR. 

What, when a Christian dies ? Shall I not offer 
A Christian " Vade in pace ?" 

ARNOLD. 

Silence! Oh! 
Those eyes are glazing, which o'erlook'd the world, 
And saw no equal. 

BOURBON. 

Arnold, shouldst thou see 
France — but hark ! hark ! the assault grows warmer— 

Oh! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Amoid ! hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee 

ARNOLD. 

And without thee ! 

BOURBON. 

Not so ; I '11 lead them still 
In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
Victorious ! 

ARNOLD. 

But I must not leave thee thus. 

B0U:^B0N. 

You must — farewell — Up ! up ! the world is wmning. 

[Bourbon dies 
c^sAR {to Arnold). 
Come, count, to business. 

ARNOLD. 

True. I 'll weep hereafter. 
[Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, ana 
mounts the ladder, crying, 
The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Rome is ours ! 

C.5;SAR. 

Good night. Lord Constable ! thou wert a man. 

[CmsAB. follows Arnold ; they reach the battlement ; 
Arnold and Cesar are struck down. 
A precious somerset ! Is your countship injured? 

ARNOLD. 

No. [Remounts the luddet , 

c^sar. 
A rare blood-hound, ^\hen his own is heated! 
And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes them dovra ' 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar ; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here, a Roman ^ 

\^A manfaUi 
The first bird of the covey ! he has fall'n 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow " 

THE WOUNDED tfAN. 

A droD of water ! 



440 BYRON'S WORKS. 


CiESAR. 


ARNOLD. 


Blood 's the only liquid 


And done- 


Noa'-e- than Tiber. 


My word is known. 


WOUNDED MAN. 


ROMAN. 


I have died for Rome. [Dies. 


So shall be my deeds. 


CJESAR. 


[They re-engage. CvEsar comes forworn. 


And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 


C^SAR. 


Oh, these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 


Why, Arnold ! Hold thine own ; thou hast in hand 


But I must after my young charge. He is 


A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor ; 


By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 


Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 


[C^SAR mounts the ladder; the Scene closes. 


Not so, my musqueteer ; 't was he who slew 




The Bourbon from the wall. 

ARNOLD. 




SCENE II. 


Ay, did he so ? 


T7(e City. — Combats between the Besiegers and Besieged 


Then he hath carved his monument. 


in the streets. — Inhabitants ^ying in confusion. 


ROMAN. 

I yet 
May live to carve your better's. 


Enter C^sar. 


C-ESAR. 


CiESAR. 


I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 


Well said, my man of marble ! Benvenuto, 


With the heroic crowd that now pursue 


Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 


Yhe fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 


Who slays Cellini, will have work'd as hard 


What have we here ? A cardinal or two, 


As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 


Tnat do not seem in love with martyrdom. 


[Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, but slightly ; 


tiow the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 


the latter draws a pistol^ and fires ; then retires and 


Their hose as they have doff 'd their hats, 't would bo 


disappears through the portico. 


A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 


C^SAR. 


But let them fly, the crimson kennels now 


How farest thou ? Thou hast a taste, methinks, 


Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 


Of red Bellona's banquet. 


Is of the self-same purple hue. 


ARNOLD [staggers). 


Enter a party Jighting.—A.^^o-LT) at the head of the 


'T is a scratch. 


Besiegers. 


Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 


He comes, 


C^SAR. 


Ean 1 in hand with the mild tmns— Gore and Glory. 


Where is it? 


Molia! hold, count! 


ARNOLD. 


ARNOLD. 


In the shoulder, not the sword arm— 


Away ! they must not rally. 


And that 's enough. I am thirsty : would I had 


CiESAR. 


A helm of water ! 


I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 


C^SAR. 


Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 


That 's a liquid now 


A form of beauty, and an 


In requisition, but by no means easiest 


Exemption from some maladies of body, 


To come at. 


But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 


ARNOLD. 


But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 


And my thirst increases ;— but 


I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 


I '11 find a way to quench it. 


I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 


C^SAR. 


More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 


Or be quench'd 


And know thyself a mortal still. 


Thyself? 


ARNOLD. 


ARNOLD. 


And who 


The chance is even ; we will throw 


With aught of soul would combat if he were 


The dice thereon. But I lose time prating ; 


Invdkierable ? That were pretty sport. 


Prithee, be quick. [Caesar binds on the ttorf 


Think'st thou I beat for hares when Uons roar ? 


And what dost thou so 'dly ? 


[Arnold rushes into the combat. 


Why dost not strike ? 


C^SAR. 


CjESAR. 


A precious sample of humanity ! 


Your old philosophers 


Well, his blood's up, and if a little 's shed, 


Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 


T will serve to curb his fever. 


The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 


1 Arnold engages with a Roman, who retires towards 


Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 


a portico. 


ARNOLD. 


ARNOLD. 


Ay, 'gainst an oak. 


Yield thee, slave 


C^SAR. 


I oromi-te quarter. 

ROMAN. 


A forest, when it suits nie. 


I combat with a mass, or not at all. 


That 's soon said. 


Meantime, pursue thy spurt, as I do mine : 



THE DEFORMED THANSFORMED. 



441 



^Vhich is just now to gaze, since all these labourers 
^Vill reap my harvest gratis. 



A fiepd ! 



ARNOLD. 

Thou art still 



CjESAR. 

And thou — a man. 

ARNOLD. 

Whv, such I fain would show me. 



True — as men are. 



\n(i what is that ? 



C^SAR. 

Thou feelest and thou see f t. 
[Eocii Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
continues between detached parties. Vhe Scene 
closes. 



SCENE III. 

S'.. Peter'' s. The Interior of the Chur h. The Pope 
it the Altar. Priests, etc. crowdin \^ in confusion, 
md Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by Soldiery, 

Enter C^sar. 

A SPANISH SOLDIEii. 

>». vvn with them, comrades ! seize upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald pated shaveling t . the chine ! 
His rosary 's of gold ! 

LUTHERAN SOLkIER. 

Revenge ! Revenge ! 
Plunder hereafter, but for veng ance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 

CiESAR {intei fjosing). 

How now, schismatic ! 
SVhat wouldst thou ? 

LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

In th'j holy name of Christ, 
Destroy proud Anti-Chri.«t. I am a Christian. 

T/ESAR. 

Yea, a disciple that woiJd make the founder 

Of your belief renounce it, could ne see 

Such proselytes. Be-t stint thyself to plunder. 

LUTI'ERAN SOLDIER. 

I say he is the devil. 

C^SAR. 

Hush ! keep that secret. 
Lost he should re< ognise you for his own. 

I UTHERAN SOLDIER. 

Why would you save him ? I repeat he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

C^SAR. 

And that 's tb<; reason ; would you make a quarrel 
With your b st friends? You had far best be quiet : 
lli* hour is uot yet come. 

LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

That shall be seen ! 

[I'he i utheran Soldier rushes forward: a shot strikes 
him from one of the Papers gwx^ds, and he falls at 
the font of the altar. 



cjEsar {to the Lutheran). 



1 'o!d you so. 



LUTHERAN SOLDIER. 

And will you not avenge me ? 

CiESAR. 

Not I ! You know that " vengeance is the Lord's :" 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

LUTHERAN {dying). 
Oh! 
Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'T is 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon 's 
No more : the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes ! [The Lutheran dies. 

CJESAR. 

Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 
Well done, old Babel ! 

[Tlie Guards defend themselves desperately, while 
the Pontiff" escapes, by a private passage, to tJu 
Vatican and the Castle of St. Angela. 

CJESAR. 

Ha ! right nobly battled ! 
Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great professions 
Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not 
Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then ; 
Now they must take their turn. 

SOLDIER. 

He hath escaped ! 
Follow ! 

ANOTHER SOLDIER. 

They have barr'd the narrow passage up. 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. 

C^SAR. 

I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank me for 't 

In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd — 

'Twere worth one half our empire: his indulgences 

Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 

Fall ; and besides, his now escape may furnish 

A future miracle, in future proof 

Of his infalhbility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats ! 
What do you pause for ? If you make not haste. 
There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you, too. Catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

SOLDIERS. 

By hol> ^eter ! 
He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bea,i 
The best away, 

CiESAR. 

And that were shame ! Go to . 
Assist in their conversion. 

[The Soldiers disperse; many quit the CJ-k 
others enter. 

C^SAR. 

They are gone. 
And others come ; so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themse'vos the breakers of the oceaj» 



-14 2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 

Enter Olijipia, Jlying from the pursuit— She springs 
upon the Altar. 

SOLDIER. 

She 's mine. 

ANOTHER SOLDIER {opposing the former). 

You he, I track'd her first ; and, were she 
The pope's niece, I '11 not peld her. [They Jight. 

THIRD SOLDIER {advancing towards Olimpia). 
You may settle 
V'our claims ; I '11 make mine good. 

OLIMPIA. 

Infernal slave ! 
i'ou touch me not alive. 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

Alive or dead ! 
OLIMPIA {embracing a massive crucifix). 
Respect your God ! 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

Yes, when he sliines in gold. 
G irl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and sudden 
effort^ casts down the crucifix • it strikes the Soldier, 
who falls. 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

Oh, great God ! 

OLIMPIA. 

Ah ! now you recognise him. 

THIRD SOLDIER. 

My brain 's crush'd ! 
Comrades, help, ho ! All 's darkness ! [He dies. 

OTHER SOLDIERS {coining up). 
Slay her, although she had a thousand hves : 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

OLIMPIA. 

Welcome such a death ! 
You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God! through thy redeeming Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee ! 

Enter Arxold. 

ARNOLD. 

What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear ! 

c^SAR {aside, and laughing). 
Ha ! ha ! here 's equity ! The dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 

SOLDIERS. 

Count, she hath slain our comrade. 

ARNOLD. 

With what weapon ? 

SOLDIER. 

The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; behold him 
T.ie there, more like a worm than man ; ehe cast it 
ITuon his head. 

ARNOLD. 

Even so ; there is a woman 
Worthy a crave man's hking. Were ye such, 
Yc would have honour'd her. But get ye hence, 
And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
For your existence Hao vou touch'd a hair 



Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks- more than the enemy. Awav ' 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the Hon leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A SOLDIER {murmuring). 

The hon 
Might conquer for himself then. 

ARNOLD {cuts him down). 
Mutineer ! 
Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

[The Soldiers assault Arnold. 

ARNOLD. 

Come on ! I 'm glad on 't ! I will show you, slaves, 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were as shy to scale. 
Until I waved my banners from its height. 
As you are bold within it. 

[Arnold mows down the foremost ; the rest throw 
down their arms. 

SOLDIERS. 

Mercy ! mercy ! 

ARNOLD. 

Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ' 

SOLDIERS. 

We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 

ARNOLD. 

Get you hence ! 
Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace. 

OLIMPIA {aside). 
In my father's 
House! 

ARNOLD {to the soldiers). 
Leave your arms ; ye have no further need 
Of such : the city 's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I '11 find out a stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

SOLDIERS {deposing their arms and departing). 
We obey. 

ARNOLD {to Olimpia). 
Lady ! you are safe. 

OLIMPIA. 

I should be so, 
Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 

ARNOLD. 

I >Aash to merit his forgiveness, and 

Thme own, although I have not injured thee. 

OLIMPIA. 

Go ! Thou hast only sack'd my native land — 

No injury ! — and made my father's house 

A den of thievcf —No injury ! — this temple. 

Slippery with Roman and holy gore — 

No injury ! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 

To be but that shall never be 

[She raises her eyes to heaven, folds he robe round her^ 
and prepares to dash herself down on the side «f \h* 
Altar, opposite to that where Arnold stands. 



I swear. 



Hold! hold! 



OLIMPIA. 

Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A porjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

ARSOLD. 

No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 
Of these men, though 

0LI31PIA. 

I judge thee by thy mates ; 
It IS for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, 't is all thou e'er shalt have of me ! 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Wliere the baptismal font baptized me God's, 
[ offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves her hand to Arx old with disdain^ caid 
dashes herself on the pavement from the Altar, 

ARIfOLD. 

Eternal God ! 
f feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 
c^sAR {approaches'). 

I am here. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou I but oh, save her ! 

c^sAR {assisting him to raise Olimpia). 
She hath done it well ; 
The leap was serious. 

ar:?old. 
Oh ! she is lifeless ! 



If 



C5:SAR. 

She be so, I have nought to do with that : 

The resurrection is beyond me. 

ARJfOLD. 

Slave ! 

C^SAR. 

Ay, slave or master, 't is all one : methinks 
Gi3od words however are as well at times. 

ARNOLD. 

Words ! — Canst thou aid her? 

C^SAR. 

I will try. A sprinkling 
Of that same huly water may be usefiil. 

[He bnngs some in Jtis helmet from the font. 
ar:?old. 
Tis mix'd v.i.ih blood. 

^iiSAR. 

There is no cleaner now 
In Rome. 

ARNOLD. 

How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of a!l beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

CiSA '. 

Even so Achilles loved 
t'enthesilea ; with his form it seems 
Vou have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 



ARNOLD. 

She breathes ! But no, 'twas nothing, or tne last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

C^SAR. 

She breathes. 

4RX0LD. 

Thou say'st it ? Then 't is truth. 

C^SAR. 

You. do me right — 
The devil speaks trutn much oftener than he 's deem'd •. 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

ARNOLD {without attending to him). 

Yes ! her heart beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine, should vibrate - 
To an assassin's pulse 

C^SAR. 

A sage reflection, 
But somewhat late i' the day. VThere shall we bear hei 7 
I say she lives. 

ARNOLD. 

And will she live ? 



As much 



As dust can. 



ARNOLD. 

Then she is dead ! 

CiESAR. 

Bah ! bah ! You are so. 
And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

ARNOLD. 

We win 
Convey her imto the Colonna palace, 
Where I have pitch'd my banner. 

C^SAR. 

Come then ! raise her up ! 

ARNOLD. 

Sofdy ! 

C^SAR. 

As softly as they bear the dead. 
Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

ARNOLD. 

But doth she live indeed? 

CSSAR. 

Nay, never fear ! 
But if you rue it after, blame not me. 

ARNOLD. 

Let her but live ! 

C^SAR. 

The spirit of her hfe 
Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Count ! count ! I am your servant in all things. 
And this is a new office : — 't is not oft 
I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
How staunch a fHend is what you call a heno 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends , 
Now / desert not mine. Soft ' bear her henre= 
The beautiflil half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou! 



44 4 



BYRONS WORKS. 



CiSAR. 

I. But fear not. I 'U not be ,'our rival. 

ARXOLD. 

Rival ! 

C5:SAR. 

I could be one right form" Jable ; 
But since 1 slew the seven husb mds of 
Tobia's future bride (and after ill 
'Twas suck'd out but by some incense) I have laid 
Aside intrigue: 'tis rarely wo.th the trouble 
*)C gaining, or — what is morn difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize agnin ; for there 's 
The rub! at least to mortals. 

ARNOLD. 

Prithee, peace ! 
Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

C CSAR. 

I, ike stars, no doubt ; f r that 's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venu=!. 

ARXOLD. 

To the palace 
Colonna, as I told y u ! 

C^SAR. 

Oh ! I know 
My way through Rome. 

ARNOLD. 

Now onward, onward ! Gently ! 
[Exeuni, bearing Olimpia.— TAe Scene doses. 



PART III. 

SCENE I. 
A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but 
smiling camtry. Chorus of Peasants singing before 
the Gatis, 

Chorus. 

1. 
The wars are over, 

The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
rhey are happy, we rejoice, 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 



The spring is come ; the \nolet 's gone. 

The first-bom child of the eariy sxm ; 

With us she is but a winter's flower, 

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower. 

And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 

To the yoimgest sky of the self-same hue. 

3. 

And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may conflise 
Her heavenly oaour and virgin hues. 



Pluck the others, but still remember 
Tl«'^'.r herald out of dim December — 



The morning-star of all the flowers. 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
Nor, 'midst the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin noleU 

Enter C^sar. 

c^SAR {singing). 
The wars are all over, 

Our swords are all idle, 

The steed bites the bridle. 
The casque 's on the wall. 
There 's rest for the rover ; 

But his armour is rusty, 

And the veteran grows crusty. 
As he ya\vns in the hall. 
He drinks — but v.hat 's drinking? 
A mere pause from thin k ing 1 
No bugle awakes him with Ufe and deatli o' 

Chorus. 
But the hound bayeth loudly. 

The boar 's in the wood. 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood. 
On the wrist of the noble, 

She sits hke a crest, 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 



Oh ! shadow of glory ! 

Dim image of war ! 
But the chase hath no story, 

Her hero no star. 
Since Nimrod, the founder 

Of empire and chase. 
Who made the woods wonder. 

And quake for their race. 
When the Uon was young. 

In the pride of his might. 
Then 't was sport for the strong 

To embrace him in fight ; 
To go forth, v.-ith a pine 

For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 
Or strike through the ravine 

At the foaming behemoth ; 
While man was in stature 

As towers in our dme. 
The first-bom of Nature, 

And, like her, sublime ! 

Chorus. 
But the wars are over, 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 

[Exeunt the Peasantry, singirig. 



] — ~ — "" 

( 445 ) 


?^rai3tu antr SnvtM; 


A i>IYSTERY. 


FOUNDED OX THE FOLLOW iXG PASSAGE IX GENESIS, CHAP. VL 


And it came to pais. ... that the sons of Gal saw the daughters of men that they were fair, anJ. ihcf 


took them wi-.es of all which they chose. 


Arid woman wailing fir her demon lover. — COLERIDGE. 


DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 

Then wed thee 




Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 


AXGELS. 


There 's Japhet bves thee well, hath loved thee 'ong . 


Samiasa. 


Marry, and bring forth dust ! 


AZAZIXL. 


AXAH. 


Raphael, the ArchangeL 


I should have loved 


MEN. 


Azaziel not less were he mortal : yet 


Noah, and Ids Sons. 


I am glad he is not. I cannot outlive him. 


Irad, 


And when I think that his immortal wings 


WOMEN. 


Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 


A>-AH. 


Of the poor child of clay which so adored him. 


Aholibamah. 


As he adores the Highest, death becomes 




Less terrible : but yet I pity him ; 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 


Chorus of Spirits of the Eartk — Chorus of Mortals. 




Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph, 




And he the perishable. 


HEAYEX AXD EAUTH. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 

Rather say, 




That he will single forth some other daughter 




SCENE I. 


Of earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 


A woody end mountainous district near Mount AraraL 
Time — midnight. 


A5AH. 

And if it should be so, and she so loved him. 


Better thus than that he should weep for me. 


Enter Axah and Aholibamah. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


AXAH. 


K I thought thus of Samiasa's love. 


Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 


All seraph as he is, I 'd spurn hira from me. 


Who love us are accustom'd to descend 


But to otrr invocation ! 'T is the hour. 


rhrough the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat :— 


AXAH. 


How my heart heats ! 


Seraph! 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


From thy sphere ! 


Let us proceed upon 


Whatever star contain thy glory ; 


Our invocation. 


In the eternal depths of heaven 


A5AH. 


Albeit thou waichest with " the seven, " 


But the stars are hidden. 


Though through space infinite and hoary 


i tremble. 


Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


Yet hear ! 


So do I, but not with fear 


Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 


Of aught save. their delay. 


And though she nothincr is to thet, 


AX AH. 


Yet think that thou art all to her. | 


3Iy sister, though 


Thou canst not tell, — and never be 


I love Azaziel more than — oh, too much ! 


Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 


What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious. 


The bitterness of tears. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


Eternity is in thine years. 


And where is the impiety of loving 


Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes : 


Celestial natures? 


With me thou canst not sympathize. 


AX AH. 


Except in love, and there thou must 


But, AhoUbamah, 


Acknowledge that more loving dust 


f love our God less since his angel loved me : 


Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 


This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 


Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'si 


Thai I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 


The face of Him who made thee great. 


1 The arcbangek, said to be seven in auinbef 


2 a- 



446 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As He hath made me of the least 
Of those casi out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, seraph dear! 
Oh hear! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou forget'st in thine eternity 

Her whose heart death could not keep Jrom o'erflowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such I feel are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my seraph ! that such tlioughts appear, 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, 
Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
Appear! appear! 
Seraph I 
My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
Ard leave the stars to their own light. 

AHCLIBAMAH. 

Samiasa ? 
VVheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with Him 
Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Some wandering star which shoots through the abyss, 
Whose tenants, dying while their world is falling, 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
Thou deignest to partake their hynm — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many worship thee — that will I not : 
If tliat thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and share my loc! 
Though I be form'd of clay. 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams. 
Thine immortality cannot repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 

In m.e, which, though forbidden yet to snme, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long : death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away, 

Is that a cause for thee and me to part? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel, 

I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
All pains, all tears, aU time, all fears, and peal 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
Into my ears this truth — " thou livest for ever!" 
But if it be in joy, 
1 khuw not, nor would know ; 
I'tidl secret rests with the Almighty giver 
Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and woe. 

Rut thee and me He never can destroy; 
Uhange us He may, but not o'er whelm ; we are 
as eiemal essence, and must war 



With Him if He will war with us ; with thee 

I can share all things, even immortal sorrow; 
For thou hast ventured to share hfe \^^th wip, 
And shall 1 shrink from thine eternity ? 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me 
through. 
And thou thyself wert hke the serpent, I'.oil 
Around me still ! and I will smile 

And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend ; and provii 

A m.ortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 

ANAH. 

Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted nijiht. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

The clouds from off their pinions flingmg 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

ANAH. 

But if our father see the sight 1 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

ANAH. 

They come ! he comes !~Azaziel ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Haste 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

ANAH. 

Lo ! they have kindled all the west. 

Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 
On Ararat's late secret crest 

A mild and many-colour'd bow. 
The remnant of their flashing path, 
Now shmes ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as ripphng foam, 

W^hich the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home, 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 

ANAH. 

My Azaziel ! 

[Exeunt 



SCENE n. 

Enter Irad and Japhet. 

IRAD. 

Despond not : wherefore wilt thou wander Ihus 
To add thy silence to the silent night. 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
They cannot aid thee. 

JAPHET. 

But they soothe me &w 
Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



44' 



The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah ! 

IRAD. 

But she loves thee not. 

JAPHET. 

Alas! 

IRAD. 

And prouii Aholibamah spurns me also. 

JAPHET. 

I feel for thee too. 

IRAD. 

Let her keep her pride : 
Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn ; 
It may be, time too will avenge it. 

JAPHET. 

Canst thou 
Find joy in such a thought ? 

IRAD. 

Nor joy, nor sorrow. 
I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met with love : as 't is, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

JAPHET. 

What destinies ? 

IRAD. 

I have some cause to think 
She loves another. 

JAPHET. 

Anah? 

IRAD. 

No ; her sister. 

JAPHET. 

What other 7 

IRAD. 

That I know not ; but her air. 
If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

JAPHET. 

Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 

IRAD. 

Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
What can it profit thee ? 

JAPHET. 

True, nothing ; but 
I love. 

IRAD. 

And so did I. 

JAPHET. 

And now thou lovest not. 
Or think'st thou lovest not, art thou happier? 

IRAD. 

Yes. 

JAPHET. 

I pity thee. 

IRAD. 

Me! why? 

, JAPHET. 

For being happy. 
Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

IRAD. 

i lake thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 

And would not feel as thou dost, for more shekels 

Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 

Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 

The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 

As if such useless and discolour'd trash. 

The refuse of the earth, could be received 



For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon — 
I must back to my rest. 

JAPHET. 

And so would I, 
If I could rest. 

IRAD. 

Thou wilt not to our tents, then 1 

JAPHET. 

No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth, they say, opens from the internal world. 
To let the Inner spirits of the earth 
Forth, when they walk its surface. 

IRAD. 

Wherefore so ? 
What wouldst thou there ? 

JAPHET. 

Soothe further my sad spir'^ 
With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot. 
And I am hopeless. 

IRAD. 

But 't is dangerous ; 
Strange sounds and sights have peopled it witt terrors. 
I must go with thee. 

JAPHET. 

Irad, no ; believe me 
I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 

IRAD. 

But evil things will be thy foe the more 

As not being of them : turn thy steps aside. 

Or let mine be wth thine. 

JAPHET. 

No; neithei, frad: 
I must proceed alone. 

IRAD. 

Then peace be wth thee ! 

[ExitlRA.D 
JAPHET {solus). 

Peace ! I have sought it where it should be found, 

In love — vTith love too, which perhaps deserved it : 

And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 

A weakness of the spirit — listless days, 

And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 

Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the calm 

Of desolation, and the stillness of 

The untrodden forest, only broken by 

The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 

Such is the sullen or the fitful state 

Of my mind overworn. The earth 's gro^vn wicked, 

And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 

A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 

To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 

When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 

The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 

Have lam within this bosom, folded from 

The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 

Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vaini> 

While thine Oh, God ! at least remit to her 

Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the failing. 
As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 
Although tney obscure it for an hour. My AnaJ* ' 
How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst nm 
And still would I redeem thee — see thee %e 
When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
By rock or shallow, the leviathan. 




Lord of ihe shoreless sea and waterj' world, 
Shall wonder ai his boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit Japhet. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

NOAH. 

iVnerc is thy brother Japhet? 

SHEM. 

He went forth, 
According to his wont, to meet vriih. Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers nightly, 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

NOAH. 

What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the imhappy hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days, 
And that tlie hour approacheth, should indulge 
In such forbidden yeammgs ! Lead the way ; 
He must be sought for ! 

SHEM. 

Go not forward, father : 
I will seek Japhet. 

NOAH. 

Do not fear for me : 
All evil thinss are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah — let us on. 

SHEM. 

To til 8 tents of the father of the sisters ? 

NOAH. 

No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem. 



SCENE m. 

T7ie mountains. — A cavern^ and the rocks of Caucasus. 

JAPHET {solus). 
Ye wilds, that look eternal ; and thou cave, 
Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And topling trees that twine their roots with stone 
In perpendicular places, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes, 
Ye look eternal ! Y'et, in a few days, 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
Before the mass of v.aters : and yon cave, 
Which seems to lead into a lower world. 
Shall have its depths search'd by the sweeping wave. 
And dolphins gambol in the hon's den ! 

And man Oh, men ! my fellow-beings ! WTio 

Shall weep above your universal grave. 

Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 

Alas ! what am I better than ye are, 

That I must Uve beyond ye ? Where shall be 

Tlie pleasant places where I thought of Anah 

While I had hope ? or the more savjige haunts, 

Srarre less beloved, where I dcspair'd for her ? 



And can it be ? — Shall yon exulting peak. 

Whose gUttering top is like a distant star, 

Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 

No more to have the morning sun break forth, 

And scatter back die mists in floating folds 

From its tremendous brow ? no more to have 

Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 

Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 

No more to be tlie beacon of the world. 

For angels to alight on, as the spot 

Nearest the stars ? and can those words "no more" 

Be meant for thee, for all tilings, save for us. 

And the predestined creeping things reserved 

By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 

He preserve them^ and I not have the power 

To snatch the lovehest of earth's daughters from 

A doom which even some serpent, Avith his mate, 

Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd. 

To kiss and sting through some emerging world. 

Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 

Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this, until 

The salt morass subside into a sphere 

Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 

The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 

Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 

Breath v.-ill be still'd at once ! All-beauteous world J 

So young, so niark'd out for destruction, I 

With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 

And night by night, thy number'd days and mghts. 

I cannot save tliee, cannot save even her 

WTiose love had made me love thee more ; but as 

A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 

Upon thy coming doom, without a feeling 

Such as — Oh God ! and canst thou 

[He pausLt. 
[A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and shnuU 
of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 

JAPHET. 

In the name 
Of the 3Iost High, what art thou ? 
SPIRIT {laughs). 

Ha! ha! ha' 

JAPHET. 

By all that earth holds hohest, speak ! 
SPiP.iT {laughs). 

Ha! ha! 

JAPHET. 

By the approaching deluge ! by the earth 
Which will be stransled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas. 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
Thou, unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
Yet awful thing of shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 

SPIRIT. 

WTiy weep'st thorj ? 

JA.PHET. 

For earth, and all her cliildren. 

SPIRIT. 

Ha! ha! ha! [Spirit lanh^, ft. 

JAPHET. 

How the fiend mocks the torture? of a world. 
The coming desolation of an orb, 
LOn which the sun shall rise and warm no life ' 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



44'.* 



How the eLi.rtli sleeps ! and all that in it is 

Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 

Why should they wake to meet it ? What is here, 

Which look Uke death in life, and speak like things 

Born ere this dying world ? They come hke clouds ! 

[Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 

SPIRIT. 

Rejoice ! 
The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 

But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 

Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
motion. 
Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
Earth shaU be ocean ! 
And no breath, 
Save of the \\'inds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from out the Uquid grave 

Shall hft its point to save. 
Or sh'ov/ the place where strong Despair hath died. 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue ; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, or of the level plain ; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
And sea and sky 
Look vast and hfeless in the eternal eye. 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 

JAPHET {coming forward). 
JNIy sire ! 
Earth's seed shall not expire ; 

Only the e\il shall be put away 
From day. 
Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
Wlio howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroy ; 
Hence ! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
ShaU search you inyoui secret place. 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be roU'd upon the tossing winds 
In restless wretchedness along all space ! 

SPIRIT 

Son of the saved ! 
When thou and tnme have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
Shalt thou and thine be good or happy ? — No ! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of woe — 
62 



Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive, 
And eat, and drink, and wive 1 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed. 
As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
Without such grief and courage, as should rather 

Bid thee await the v/orld-dissolving wave. 
Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd father, 
And Ijuild thy city o'er the drown'd earth's gj ve 1 
Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mme 
Hateth thine, 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 
Go, wretch ! and give 
A Ufe like thine to other wretches — live ! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 
Above what they Iiave done. 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
Thyself for being his son ! 
Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 
Rejoice ! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 

With prayer ; 
No more 

Shall they adore ; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice ; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'u 
Until one element shall do the work 

Of all in chaos ; untU they. 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurii 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair. 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other. 

And the striped tiger shall he down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother • 
Till all things shall be as they were, 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shaU forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation. 
To generate new nations for Ms use ; 

This remnant, floatmg o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soi 
Into a world, shall give again to time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime- 
With all companionship of hate and toil. 
Until 



450 



BYRON S WORKS. 



JAPHET {inlemipting them). 
The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 
Unto himself all times, and things ; 
Knd, gather'd under his almighty wings, 
Abolish heU ! 
And to the expiated earth 
Restorf; the beauty of her birth. 
Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do well ! 

SPIRITS. 

A ad when shall take effect this wondrous spell ? 

JAPHET. 

When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain. 
And then in glory. 

SPIPvIT. 

Meantime stiH struggle in the mortal chain, 

Till earth wajc hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain, 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest iU, 
Shall be amongst your race in different forms ; 

But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giants' graves.' 
Chorus of Spirits. 
Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Bark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 

The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ! 
The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs ! 
TTie foimtains of the great deep shall be broken. 

And heaven set ^nde her windows ; while mankind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 

We hear the sound they cannot hear. 
The mustering thunders of thft threatening sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd ; 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high. 
Yet undisplay'd, 
Save to the spirits' all-pervading eye. 

Howl ! howl ! oh earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
Tremble, yc mountains, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow ! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

The Uttle shells of ocean's least things, be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd save by the encroaching swell: — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wmgs wiiich could not save : — 
Wherti could he rest them, while the whole space brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave? 
Brethren, rejoice ! 
And loudiy lift each superhuman voice — 
AU die. 



I Anr] iFiere wee giants in those Jay«, and after; mighty 
men, wlllc^ were o' old men of reeown." — GenesiA 



Save tlie slight remnant of Selh's seed — 

The seed of Scth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain : 
And all his goodly daughters 
INIust ^e beneath the desolating waters , 
Or, floating upward with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel Heaven upbraid. 

Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 

It is decreed. 
All die 1 
And to the universal h.mian cry 
The universal silence shall succeed ! 

Fly, brethren, fly .' 

But still rejoice ! 
We feU ! 
They faU ! 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from HeU ! 

\The Spirits disappear ^ soaring upwanl^. 
JAPHET {solus). 
G^d hath proclaim'd the destiny of earth ; 
!My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll ' of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thimder to the ear : 
And yet men listen'd not, nor listen : but 
Walk darkling to then- doom ; which, though so nigh, 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief. 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose, 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
The sun wiU rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said imto him, " Shine !" and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
INIade and far sweeter voices of the birds. 
Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites ! 
Their matins now draw nigh — ^the east is kindlmg 
And they wiH sing ! and day will break ! Both near, 
So near the a^^^ful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep : and day. 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? A chaos. 
Which was ere day ; and which, renew'd, makes tinie 
Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours ? 
No more to dust than is eternity 
Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void : without mEin, time, as made for maii, 
Dies with man, and is swaUow'd in that deep 
Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
Devo'ir'd by that which drowns his infant world.— 
What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air ? 
No — all of heaven, they are so beautifuL 



1 The Book of Enoch, preaened by the Ethiopians, iseaid 
by tliem to be anterior lo the flood 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



43 



I canjiot tra e their features ; but their forms, 
How lovelily they move along the side 
Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist ! 
And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
Infernal immortaUty pour'd forth 
Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
To tell me the reprieve of our young world. 
For which I have so often pray'd — They come ! 
Anah ! oh God ! and with her 

Enfer Samiasa, AzAziEL, ANAH,07Ki Aholibamah. 

ANAH. 

Japhet ! 

S AMI AS A. 

Lo! 

A son of Adam ! 

AZAZIEL. 

What doth the earth-bom here. 
While all his race are slumbering? 

JAPHET. 

Angel! what 
Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on high ? 

AZAZIEL. 

Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? 

JAPHET. 

But all good angels have forsaken earth. 
Which is condemn'd : nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below ? 

ANAH. 

Japhet, I cannot answer thee ; yet, yet 
Forgive me 

JAPHET. 

May the Heaven, which soon no more 
Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah! 
We know thee not. 

JAPHET. 

The hour may come when thou 
May'st know me better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

SAMIASA. 

Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, whate'er thy griefs, 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath. 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong ? 

JAPHET. 

Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs : but thou 
Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
Deserve her. Fare^Vell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain? 

AZAZIEL. 

From what ? 

JAPHET. 

And is it so 

That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 



Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
Partake his punishment: or at the least 
My sorrow. 

SAMIASA. 

Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 
To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

JAPHET. 

And hath not the Most High expounded them ? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

So be it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa ! 

ANAH. 

Sister ! sister ! speak not 
Thus. 

AZAZIEL. 

Fearest thou, my Anah? 

ANAH. 

Yes, for thee ; 
I would resign this greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

JAPHET. 

It is for him, then ! for the seraph, thou 

Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 

Left thy God too ! for unions like to these. 

Between a mortal and immortal, cannot 

Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 

Upon the earth to toil and die ; asid they 

Are made to minister on high unto 

The Highest ; but if he can save thee, soon 

The hour will come in which celestial aid 

Alone can do so. 

ANAH. 

Ah ! he speaks of death. 

SAMIASA. 

Of death to us ! and those who are with us I 
But that the man seems full of t5orrow, I 
Could smile. 

JAPHET. 

I grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 
I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power were greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she. 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

And dost thou think that we. 
With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain, who was begottet 
In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children ? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thme 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

JAPHET. 

I did not speak to ihce, Aholibamah ! 

Too much of the forefather, wnom thou vauniesi 

Has come down in that haughty blood which sprinje* 



i:r2 BYRONS 


WORKS. 


From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 


And bid those clouds and \n .ters take a shape 


But thou, my Anali ! let me call thee mine, 


Distinct from that which we and all our sires 


Albeit thou art not ; 't is a word I cannot 


Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 


Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 


Who shall do this? 


Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 


JAPHET. 


Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 


He whose one word produccvl Jicm 


Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 


Who Aeard that word? 


For all of them are fairest in their favour 


JAPHET. 


AHOLiBAMAH {interrupting him). 


The universe, which leap'd 


And wouldst thou have her like our father's foe 


To Ufe before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn 7 


Cn mind, and soul? If /partook thy thought, 


Turn to thy seraphs j if they attest it not. 


And dream'd that aught of Abel was in her ! — 


They are none. 


Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou mak'st strife. 


SAMIASA. 


JAPHET. 


Aholibamah, own thy God ! 


Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 


But 


As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 


He slew not Seth ; and what hast thou to do 




With other deeds between his God and him ? 


JAPHET. 

Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 


JAPHET. 

Thou speakest well : his God hath judged him, and 


He who made earth in love, had soon to grieve 
Above its fii'st and best inhabitants. 


I had not named his deed, but that thyself 




Didst seem to glory in hini, nor to shrink 


AHOLIBAMAH. 

'T is said so. 


From what he had done. 


JAPHET. 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


It is even so. 


He was our father's father : 




The eli'est born of man, the strongest, bravest, 


JEnter Noah and Shem. 


And mos. enduring :— Shall I blush for him. 


NOAH. 


From whom we had our being? Look upon 


Japhet! W^hat 


Our race; bthold their stature and their beauty. 


Dost thou here with these children of the wicked ? 


Theu- courage, strength, and length of days 


Dread' St thou not to partake their coming doom ? 


JAPHET. 


JAPHET. 


They are number'd. 


Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


To save an earth-born being ; and behold, 


Be it so ! but while yei their hours endure. 


Thes» are not of the sinful, since they have 


I glory in my brethren an '. our fathers ! 


The fellowship of angels. 


JAPKET. 


NOAH. 


My sire and race but glory ir, their God, 


These are they, then, 


Anah ! and thou ? 


Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 


ANAH. ■ 


From out the race of Cain : the sons of Heaven, 


Whate'er oui God decrees. 


Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty 1 


The God of Seth as Cain, I must obc^v, 


AZAZIEL. 


And will endeavour patiently to obey ; 


Patriarch ' 


But could I dare to pray in this dread her 


Thou hast said it. 


Of universal vengeance (if such should be,. 


NOAH. 


It would not be to Uve, alone exempt 

Of all my house. My sister ! Oh, my sister ! 

What were the world, or other worlds, or all 


Woe, woe, woe to such communion ! 


Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 


The brightest future without the sweet past— 


SAMIASA. 


Thy love— my father's— all the life, and all 
The thing3 which sprung up with me, Uke the stars. 


Was not man made in high Jehovah's image ? 


Did God not love what he had made ? And what 


Making my dim. existence radiant with 


i'^o we but imitate and emulate 


Soft Ughts which were not mine? Aholibamah ! 


Hi- love unto created love ? 


Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it : 


NOAH. 


I abhor death, because that thou must die. 


I am 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 


What ! hatn this dreamer, with his father's ark, 


Far less tho sons of God ; but as our God 


The bugbear he hath built to scare the world. 


Has deign'd u^ commune with me, and reveal 


Sliaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 


His judgments, I reply, that the descent 


01 ''eraphs ? and if we were not, must we 


Of seraphs from heir everlasting se^t 


Cling tu a son of Noah for our lives ? 


Unto a perishable and perishing. 


Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 


Even on the very evt of perishing, world. 


The worSv -jf dreams, the pliantasies engender'd 


Cannot be good. 


hy hopeless love and heated vigils. VVho 


AZAZIEL. 


«ie»3ll snake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 


What ! i;iough it were to save ? 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 453 


NOAH. 


And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 


Not ye in all 3'our glory can redeem 


As they wax proud within ; 


What He who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 


For blmdness is the first-born of excess. 


Were your immortal mission safety, 't would 


When all good angels left the world, ye stay'd, 


Be general, not for two, though beautiful. 


Stung %vith strange passions, and debased 


And beautifiil they are, but not the less 


By mortal feelings for a mortal maid ; 


Condemn'd. 


But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 


JAPHET. 


With your pure equals : Hence ! away ! away ' 


Oh father ! say it not. 


Or stay, 


NOAH. 


And lose eternity by that delay ! 


Son! son! 


AZAZIEL. 


If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 


And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 


That they exist ; they soon shall cease to be. 


In the decree 


While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 


To us until this moment hidden, 


And better. 


Dost thou not err as we 


JAPHET. 


In bemg here ? 


Let me die with this^ and them ! 


RAPHAEL. 


NOAH. 


I came to call ye back to your fit sphere. 


Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt not ; He 


In the great name and at the word of God i 


Who can, redeems thee. 


Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 


SAMIASA. 


That which I came to do : till now we trod 


And why him and thee. 


Together the eternal space — together 


More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 


Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die ! 


NOAH. 

Ask Him who made thee greater than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 


Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 


And much which she inherits ; but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd. 


Without involving ever some vast void 


I-east to be tempted messenger appears ! 


In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 
In their immeasurable forfeiture. 


Enter Raphael the Archangel. 


Our brother Satan fell, his burning will 


RAPHAEL. 


Rather than longer worship dared endure ! 


Spirits ! 


But ye who still are pure ! 


Whose seat is near the throne. 


Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one. 


What do ye here? 


Think how he was undone ! 


Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown 


And think if tempting man can compensate 


Now that the hour is near 


For heaven desii-ed too late? 


When earth must be alone? 


Long have I warr'd, 


Return ! 


Long must I war 


And burn 


With him who deem'd it hard 


In glorious homage with the elected "seven." 


To be created, and to acknowledge Him 


Your place is heaven. 


Who 'midst the cherubim 


SAMIASA. 


Made him as sun to a dependent star. 


Raphael ! 


Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 


The first and fairest of the sons of God, 


I loved him— beautiful he was : oh Heaven ! 


How long hath this been law, 


Save ITis who made, what beauty and what power 


That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 


Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 


Earth ! which oft saw 


In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 


Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod I 


The wish is impious : but oh ye ! 


The world He loved, and made 


Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 


For love ; and oft have we obey'd 


With him, or with his God, is in your choice : 


His frequent mission with delighted pinions ; 


He hath not tempted you, he cannot tempt 


Adoring Him in his least works display'd ; 


The angels, from his further snares exempt ; 


Watching this youngest star of his dominions : 


But man hath listen'd to his voice, 


And as the latest birth of His great word, 


And ye to woman's— beautiful she is. 


Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 


The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 


Why is thy brow severe ? 


The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will draw 


^nd wherefore speak'st thou of destruction near? 


A second host from heaven, to break Heaven's law. 


RAPHAEL. 


Yet, yet, oh fly ! 


Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 


Ye cannot die. 


In their true place, with the angelic choir, 


But they 


Written in fire 


Shall pass away, 


They would have seen 


While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sTsy 


Jehovah's late decree, 


For perishable clay, 


And not inquired their Maker's breath of me. 


Whose memory in your immortality 


But ignorance must ever be 


Shall long outlast the sun whion gave ir.cm a<iv 


A part of sin : 


Think how your essence differeth from theirs 


2R 





154 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In all but suffering ! Why partake 

Tlie agony to which they must be heirs — 

Boiti to be ploush'd \%'ith tears, and so\\ti ^vith cares, 

And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? 

Even had their days been left to toil their path 

Through time to dust, unshortenM by God's ^vrath, 

Still they are e\Ti's prey and sorrow's spoil. 

AKOLIBAMAH. 

Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die. 

Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died ; 

And that on high 

An ocean is prepared. 

While from below 

The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister ! since it is so. 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one horn- of woe. 
Let us resign even what we have adored. 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And waihng less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 

And, when the fatal waters are allay'd, 
Weep for the m}Tiads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore. 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die. 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity. 
Or li%'in2, is but known to the great Giver : 
Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
I would not keep tliis life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond His wiU ; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of His grace. 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven. 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
'T is that an angel's bride disdains to weep — 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 

AXAH. 

And must we die ? 
And must I lose thee too, 
Azaziel ? 
Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true, 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
ITie blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new ; 
But yet depart ! 
Ah, why ? 
V ot let me not retain thee — fly ! 
My pan 25 can be but brief: but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
Tc one of Adam's race ! 
On, doom is sorrow ! not to us alone. 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To iove us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 



The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 

From his once archangelic throne 

Into some unlmowTi world: 
And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
Thou shalt not suffer woe 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 

Thou canst not weep ; but yet 

May'st suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
Her whom the surges of the all-strangling deej) 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 

JAPHET. 

Oh say not so ! 
Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
That pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 

NOAH. 

Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
If not within thy heart yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong ! 
Live as he mils it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorro^rful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear -with thy selfish plaint, 

Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 

JAPHET. 

Ay, father ! but when they are gone. 

And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 

The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast. 
Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then command? 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
Oh, God ! be thou a god, and spare 
Yet while 't is time ! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 

Mankind were then but twain. 
But thev are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain. 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would their gravp- « 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 

NOAH. 

Silence, vain boy ! each word of tlfine 's a crime ! 
Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

RAPHAEL. 

Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : Ye, 
WTio are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
ISIay now return with me. 

SA^lTASi. 

It may not be : 
We have chosen, and vriil endure. 

RAPHAEL. 

Say'st thou ? 

AZAZIEL. 

He hath said it, and I say, Ame» • 

RAPHAEL. 

Again ! 
Then from this hour. 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 





HEAVEN AND EARTH. 455 


And aliens from your God, 


SAMIASA. 


Farewell ! 


But ours is with thee : we will bear ye far 


JAPHET. 


To some untroubled star, 


Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 


Where thou and Anah shall partake our lot : 


Hark ! hark » Deep sounds, and deeper still, 


And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth. 


Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 


Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 


There 's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 


ANAH. 


Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 


Oh, my dear father's tents, my place of birth ! 


Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 


And mountains, land, and woods, when ye are not^ 


NOAH. 


Who shall dry up my tears ? 


Hark ! hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 


AZAZIEL. 


In clouds they overspread the lurid sky. 


Thy spirit-lord. 


And hover round the mountain, where before 


Fear not, though we are shut from heaven, 


Never a white wing, wetted by the wave. 


Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. 


Yet dared to soar, 


RAPHAEL. 


Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 


Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 


Soon it shall be their only shore. 


Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword. 


And then, no more ! 


Which chased the first-born out of paradise. 


JAPHET. 


Still flashes in the angelic hands. 


The sun ! the sun ! 


AZAZIEL. 


He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 


It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death. 


And a black circle, bound 


And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds ! 


His glaring disk around. 


What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 


Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone ! 


RAPHAEL. 


The clouds return into the hues of night. 


The moment cometh to approve thy strength : 


Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak 


And learn at length 


The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 


How vain to war with what thy God commands : 


NOAH. 


Thy former force was in thy faith. 


And lo ! yon flash of light, 


Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 


The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 




It Cometh ! hence, away ! 


Chorus of Mortals. 


Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 


The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh God ! 


Hcncc to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 


What have we done ? Yet spare ! 


Its safe and wreckless sides. 


Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their prayei ' 


JAPHET. 


The dragon crawls from out his den. 


Oh, father, stay ! 


To herd in terror innocent with men ; 


Leave not my Anah to the swallomng tides ! 


And the birds scream their agony through air. 


NOAH. 


Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 


Must we not leave all life to such ? Begone ! 


Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair ! 


JAPHET. 


Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 


Not I. 


RAPHAEL. 


NOAH. 


Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of clay. 


Then die 


I cannot, must not aid you. 'T is decreed ! 


With them ! 


[£"^^2)! Raphael. 


How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 


JAPHET. 


And seek to save, what all things now condemn, 


Some clouds sweep on, as vultures for their prey, 


In overwhelming unison 


While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 


With just Jehovah's wrath ? 


At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 


JAPHET. 


No azure more shall robe the firmament, 


Can rage and justice join in the same path ? 


Nor spangled stars be glorious : death hath risen 


NOAH. 


In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 


Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur even now ? 


Hath wound itself around the dying air. 


RAPHAEL. 


AZAZIEL. 


Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy brow : 


Come, Anah ! quit this chaos- founded prison. 


Thy son, despite his" folly, shall not sink ; 


To which the elements again repair, 


He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 


To turn it into what it was : beneath 


With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 


The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe. 


But be, when passion passeth, good as thou, 


As was the eagle's nestling once within 


Nor perish like Heaven's children with man's daugh- 


Its mother's.— Let the coming chaos chafe 


ters. 


With all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 


AHOLIBAMAH. 


A brighter world than this, where thou shall breatht. 


The tempest cometh ; heaven and earth unite 


Ethereal life, will we explore : 


For the annihilation of all life. 


These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 


Unequal is the strife 


[AzAziEL and Samiasa fly o^, and disappear 


Bel .veen our strength and the eternal miftht ! 


with Anah and Aholibamah, 



156 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



JAPHET. 

They are gone ! They have disappear'd amidst the roar 
Of rh*? forsaken world ; and never more, 
WheLier they live, or die with all earth's life, 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals, 
Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
What, wilt thou leave us all — aD — all behind ? 
While safe amidst the elemental strife, 
Thou.sit'st within thy guarded ark? 

A MOTHER [offering her infant to Japhet). 
Oh let this child embark ! 
I brought him forth in woe. 

But thought it joy 
To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why was he born ? 
What hath he done — 
My unwean'd son — 
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that Jeath 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 

My boy. 
And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
Suve him, thou seed of Seth ! 
Or cursed be — with Him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd ! 

JAPHET. 

Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, but for prayer ! 
Chorus of Mortals. 
For prayer ! ! ! 
And where 
Shall prayer ascend, 
>Vhen the swoln clouds imto the mountains bend 

And burst, 
And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accursed 
ne He, who made thee and thy sire ! 
We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 

But, as we know the worst, 
tVTiv should our hymns be raised, our knees be bent 
Betore the implacable Omnipotent, 
Kince we must fall the same ? 
If- He hath made earth, let it be His shame. 
To make a world for torture : — Lo ! they come. 
The loathsome waters in their rage ! 
And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb ! 

The forest's trees (coeval with the hour 
When paradise upsprung. 

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung), 

So massy, vast, yet green in their old age. 
Are overtopp'd. 

Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd, 
Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
Vainly we look up to the louring skic» — 

Tliey meet the seas, 
\ nd shut out God from our beseeching eyes, 
f^ly, son of Noah, fly, and take thine ease 
1(1 thine allotted ocean-tent; 
\iu\ view all floating o'er the element, 



The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise ! 

A WOMAN. 

Blessed are the dead 
Who die in the Lord ! 
And though the waters be o'er earth outspread. 
Yet, as His word. 
Be the decree adored ! 
He gave me life — He taketh but 
The breath which is His own : 
And though these eyes should be for ever shut, 
Nor longer this weak voice before His thronp 
Be heard in supplicating tone, 
Still blessed be the Lord, 
For what is past. 
For that which is ; 
For all are His, 
From first to last — 
Time — space — eternity — hfe — death— 

The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
He made, and can unmake ; 

And shall /, for a little gasp of breath, 
Blaspheme and groan ? 

No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake ! 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Where shall vv^e fly ? 
Not to the mountains high ; 
For now their torrents rush with double roar, 
To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
Already grasps each dro^^^ling hill. 
Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 

Enter a Woman. 

WOMAN. 

Oh, save me, save ! 
Our valley is no more : 
My father and my father's tent. 
My brethren and my brethren's herds. 
The pleasant trees that o'er our noon-day bent. 
And sent forth evening Eongs from sweetest birds, 
The little rivulet which freshen'd all 
Our pastures gi-cen, 
No more are to be seen. 
When to the mountain cliff" I climb'd this morn, 

I turn'd to bless the spot, 
And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 

And now they are not ! — 
Why was I born ? 

JAPHET. 

To die ! in youth to die ; 

And happier in tliat doom, 

Than to behold the universal tomb 

Which I 

Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 

Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 

[ Tlie J Voters rise : Men fly in every direction. , 
many are overtaken by the waves ; the Chorus 
of Mortals disperses in search of safety up the 
Mountains; Japhet remains upoii a -ock, 
v)hile the Ark floats towards him in the dis- 
tance. 



( 457 ) 



©nr Projjftrcg of 9nnte. 



'T is the sunset of life gjves me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 



CAMPBELL. 



DEDICATION. 



I ADV ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 

Where I wa55 born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great poet-sire of Italy 
[ dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copv of the South's sublime, 

Thou art the cause ; and, howsoe'er I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
Thou, in the pride of beauty and of youth, 

Spakest ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd, 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 
Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



PREFACE. 



In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna, in 
the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author 
that, having composed something on the subject of 
Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's 
exile — the tomb of the poet forming one of the princi- 
pal objects of interest in that city, both to the native 
and to the stranger. 

" On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the 
reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my 
purpose to continue the poem in various other cantos 
to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader 
is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in 
the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Corn- 
media and his death, and shortly before the latter event, 
foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensu- 
ing centuries. In adopting this plan, I have had in my 
mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy 
of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of 
Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of 
Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto 
tried in our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley, 
of whose translation I never saw but one extract, 
quoted in the notes of Caliph Vathek ; so that — if I 
do not err — this poem may be considered as a metrical 
t^:periment. The cantos are short, and about the same 
length of those of the poet whose name I have bor- 
rowed, and most probably taken in vain. 

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the pres- 
ent day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good 
■-'r bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune 
II) see the fourth canto of Childe Harolc* translated 
2 a 2 b3 



into Italian versi sciolti — that is, a poem written in the 
Spenserean stanza into blank verse, without regard to 
the natural divisions of the stanza, or of the sense. If 
the present poem, being on a national topic, should 
chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the 
Italian reader to remember, that when I have failed in 
the imitation of his great " Padre Alighier," I have 
failed in imitating that which all study and few under- 
stand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what 
was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of 
the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and 
probable conjecture may be considered as having de- 
cided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
not quite sure that he would be pleased with my suc- 
cess, since the Itahans, with a pardonable nationality, 
are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a na- 
tion — their literature ; and, in the present bitterness of 
the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to 
permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, with- 
out finding some fault with his ultramontane presump- 
tion. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what 
would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of 
Milton, or if a translation of /lonti, or Pindemonte, or 
Ariel, should be held- up to thf- rising generation, as a 
model for their future poetical .-ssays. But I perceive 
that I am deviating into an addr ss to the Itahan readei , 

hen my business is with the E ighsh one, and, be they 
few or many, I must take my leave of both. 



THE 



PHOPHECY OF DANTE, 



CANTO I. 

Once more in man's frail world ! which I had left 
So long that 't was forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
'Midst v/hom ray own bright Beatr'ce i)iess'd 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 

Of the Eternal Triad ! first, last, best. 

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great Gcxl ; 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

IJnblasted by the glory, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty thron*- 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sw^ef ^imbs the sod 



458 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole puro seraph of my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone. 
That nought on earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, 
1 fad wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy 5ght 
My paradise had still been mcomplete.^ 
Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 
Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
With the world's war, and years, and banishment. 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 
For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd ; 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 
In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 
Of me, can I return, though but to die. 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 
l?ut the «5un, though not overcast, must set. 
And the night cometh ; I am old in days. 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 
Destruction face to face in all liis ways. 
The world hath left me, what it found me — pure. 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 
J sought it not by any baser lure ; 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure. 
Though such was not my ambition's end or aim. 
To add to the vain-glorious hst of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 
And make men's fickle b-eath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes. 
In bloody chronicles of ages past. 

I would have had my Florence great and free :^ 
Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 
Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over : " but thou wouldst not ;" as the bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 
Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Ao-ainst the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 
Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
\nd doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 
To him who /or that country would expire, 
But did not merit to expire by her, 
And lOvcs her, loves her even in her ire. 
The dav may come when she will cease to err. 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter,"^ and transfer 
Of hiin, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 
Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 
Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom. 

No," -she denied me what was mine — my roof, 
Ah'I 'iliau not have what is not hers — my tomb. 



Toe long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 

The breast which would have bhd for her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that wac. teriiptation-proof. 
The man who fought, toil'd, tra'ell'j, and each p.-t 
Of a true citizen fulfiU'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelf s ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 
These things are not made for forgetfulness — 
Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distres* 
Of such endurance too prolonged, to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less^ 

Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 
My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land which once was min>rf, 
And still is hallowed by thy dust's return, 
Which would protect the murderess hke a shruie. 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 

Though, like old Marius from Minturnae's marsh 
And Carthage' ruins, my lone breast may burn 

At times with evil feehngs hot and harsh, 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er-arch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
Who long have suf" ;r'd more than mortal woe. 

And yet, being morta still, have no repose 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glov.-s 

With the oft-bafHed, slakeless thirst of change. 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks — Great God 
Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be ray shield ' 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain. 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee ? 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never gi-anted until now. 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things comes back* 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black, 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear ; 
For I have been too long and deeply wrcck'd 

On the lone rock of desolate despair 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wai) ? 
I am not of this people, nor this age, 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times, when not a page 
Of their ])erturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 

Worthless as they who wrought it : 't is the doow 

I Of spirits cf my order to be rack'd 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



459 



m (ife, to wear theiv hearts out, and consume 
Their aays in endless strife, and die alone ; 
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, 

And pilgrims (;ome from chmes where they have known 
The name of him — who now is but a name. 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone 

Spread his —by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 
And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
Is nothing ; but to wither thus — to tame 

My mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common sight to every common eye, 

A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
That make communion sweet, and soften pain — 

To feel me in the solitude of kings, 

Without the power that makes them bear a crown — 
To envy every dove his nest and wings 

Which waft him where the Apermine looks down 
On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 
Within my all-inexorable town, 

Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,* 

Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
Destruction for a dowry — this to see 

And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
I hiive not vilely found, nor basely sought, — 

Tney made an exile — not a slave of me. 



CANTO II. 



1'he spirit of the fervent days of old, 

When words were things that came to pass, and 
thought 

Fiasn'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
Their children's children's doom already brought 

Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, 

The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 
S hapes that must undergo mortality ; 

What the great seers of Israel wore within, 

That spirit was on them, and is on me. 
And if, Cassandra- like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed, 

This voice from out the wilderness, the sin 
Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed. 

The only guerdon I have ever known. 

Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 
Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 

With dim sepulchral light, bid me forg- 1 

In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 
We can have but one country, and even vet 

Thou 'rt mine — my bones shall be wit in thy breast, 

My soul within thy language, which ciice set 
With our old Roman sway in the wide west ; 

But I will make another tongue arise 

As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 

he hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs, 

Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 

That every word, as bi'illiant as thy skies, 
.Shall realize a poet's proudest dream. 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 

So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess ks barba'ism when compared with thine. 



This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 

Thy Tuscan bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 
Woe ! woe ! the veil of coming centuries 
Is rent, — a thousand years, which yet supine 

Lie hke the ocean waves ere winds arise. 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation. 
Float from eternity into these eyes ; 

The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb. 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 

But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
The elements await but for the word, 
" Let there be darkness !" and thou grow'st a tomti ! 

Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sv.-ord. 
Thou, Italy ! so fair that paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : 

Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
Thou, Italy ! whose ever-golden fields, 
Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 

For the world's granary ; thou whose sky heaven gild> 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places summer builds 

Her palace, in whose cradle empire grew. 
And form'd the eternal city's ornaments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew ; 

Birth-place of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 
Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy paint?, 

And finds her prior vision but portray'd 

In feeble colours, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid show, and rock and shaggy shade 

Of desert- loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee. 
And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 

The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, 

Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 

The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank, and Hu» , 
Are yet to come, — and on the Imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
Throned on the Palatine, while, lost and won, 

Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 

And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their god, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lomba'-d, and the beast 

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 

But those, the human savages, exjjlore 
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet 
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ;' 
The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
Beneath the traitor prince's bt.'^ner met. 

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
Had but the royal rebel liveo, perchance 
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy tafs 

Oh ! Rome, the spoiler of the spoil of France, 
t'^'rom Brennus to the Bourbon, never never 



460 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Shall foreign sUmdard to thy walls advance, 
But Tiber shall bv^come a mournful river. 

Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 

Crush them, ye rocks ! floods, whelm them, and for 
ever ! 
U'hy sleep the idle avalanches so, 

To tojiplc on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 

Why doth Eridanus but overflow 
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 

Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? 

Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 
Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway 

Roll'd o'er Pharaoh and his thousands, — why, 

Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? 
And yoc, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die. 

Sons of the conqueroi's who overthrew 

Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 
The dead whose tomb oblivion never knew. 

Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 

Their passes more alluring to the view 
Of an invader ? is it they, or ye 

That to each host the niounfain-gate unbar. 

And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 
Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car. 

And makes your land impregnable, if earth 

Could be so : but alone she will not war, 
Vet aids the warrior worthy of his birth, 

In a sol! where the mothers bring forth men ! 

Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; 
For them no fortress can avail, — the den 

Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 

Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 
The hearts of those within are quivering. 

Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 

Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring 
Against oppression ; but how vain the toil. 

While still division sows the seeds of woe 

And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 
On ' my own beauteous land ! so long laid low. 

So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 

When there is but required a single blow 
To break the chain, yet — yet the avenger stops. 

And doubt and discord step 'twixt thine and thee, 

And join their strength to that which with thee copes : 
What is there wanting then to set thee free, 

And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 

To make the Alps impassable ; and we, 
Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite ! 



CANTO III. 



F ROM out the mass of never-dymg ill. 

The plague, the prince, the stranger, and the sword, 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 

Yes, all. though not by human pen, is graven, 
Tiiere wnere the farthest suns and stars have birth. 

S|)ft;ad like a banner at the gate of heaven. 
The blnody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
VVaves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

/\i'-wart the .sound of archangelic songs, 



And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore. 

Will not in vain arise to where belongs 
Omnipotence and mercy evermore ; 

Like to a harp-string stricken by the wmd^ 

The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 

Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 

Earth's dust by immortality refined 
To sense and suffering, though the vain may scofl 

And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 

Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 

I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 

And melancholy gift high powers allow 
To read the future ; and if now rny fire 

Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ' 

I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 
Think not that I would look on them and live. 

A spirit forces me to see and speak. 

And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 
My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break 

Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 

Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take. 
Over the gleams that flash athvt'art thy gloom, 

A softer glimpse : some stars shine through thy nigh. 

And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
Leans sculptured beauty, which death cannot blight ; 

And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 

To give thee honour and the earth delight ; 
Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise. 

The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave. 

Native to thee as summer to thy skies. 
Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave/ 

Discoverers of new worlds, ,vhich take their name:"^ 

For thee alone they have no arm to save. 
And all thy recompense is in their fame, 

A noble one to them, but not to thee — 

Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 
Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 

The being — and even yet he may be bom — 

The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 
And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 

By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced ; 

And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn. 
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 

And noxious vapours from Avernus risen. 

Such as all they must breathe who are debased 
By servitude, and have the mmd in prison. 

Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 

Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen , 
Poets shall follow in the path I show, 

And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 

Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow 
And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers : they shall sing 

Many of love, and some of liberty ; 
But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 

And look in the sun's fac3 with eagle's gaze 

All free and fearless as the feathered king. 
But fly more near the earth : how many a phrase 

SuhHme shall lavish'd be on some small prince 

In all the prodigality of praise ! 
And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 

Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 
And looks on prostitution as a duty. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



4M 



He who once enters in a tyrant's hall^ 

As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 

A.nJ the first day which sees the chain enthral 
A captive sees his half of manhood gone — ^° 
The souPs emasculation saddens all 

His spirit ; thus the bard too near the throne 
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 

To smooth the verse to suit the sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 

Or force or forge fit argument of song ! 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's trebles. 
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 

For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain, 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 

In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain. 
But out of the long file of sonnetteers 
There shall be some who will not sing in vain, 

And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers," 
And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears, 

And Italy shall hail him as the chief 
Of poet lovers, and his higher song 
Of freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 

But in a further age shall rise along 

The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 

The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong 

Till they are ashes and repose with me. 
The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 

His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire 

Like that of heaven, immortal, and his thought 
Borne onwafd with a wing that cannot tire ; 

Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 
And art itself seem into nature wrought 

By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 

He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 

Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 

Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red cross 
Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, 

Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 

Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 

Of courts would sUde o'er his forgotten name. 
And call captivity'a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame ; 

tsuch shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
To be Christ's laureate — they reward him well! 
Florence doomi me but death or banishment, 

Ferrara him a pi^'since and a cell, 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 

Had Gtunjf tlr* factions which I strove to quell ; 

But thif n^'ce'i ^in, who with a lover's eye 
Will ^ jCiCf 't trth and heaven, and who will deign 
1o e\irj.o A ..ih his celestial flattery 



As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign. 
What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
Perhaps he '11 love^ — and is not love in vam 

Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer. 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain too many a year. 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 

With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul. 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 

Through her olympiads two such names, though one 
Of hers be mighty ;— and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 

Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries run. 

Their body's self-turn'd soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct ? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scatter'd ? Yes, and it must be. 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stutf, 

These birds of paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree. 

And die, or are degraded, for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair. 
And vulture passions, flying close behind, 

Await the moment to assail and tear ; 

And when at length the winged wanderers stoop. 
Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'crpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd to beai. 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have been, 
And if my name amongst the number were. 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 

Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblesl ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 

Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 

Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung. 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
breast 

A temporary torturing flame is wrung. 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 

The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO ly. 



Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best . 
They felt, and loved, and died, but woald noi ien« 

Their thoughts to meaner beings ; tl ey compress' j 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more ble^^t 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd lo lame. 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scais 

Many are poets, but without the name ; 
For what is poesy but to create 



462 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



From ovcrfeeru.g good or ill ; and aim 

A.t an externa' life beyond our fate, 
And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowmg fire from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower. 
Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain. 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ! 
So be it ; we can bear. — But thus all they. 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power. 

Which still recoils from its encumbering clay. 
Or hghtens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay, 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its spealdng brow 
Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear ; 

One noble stroke with a w^hole life may glow, 
Or deify the canvas till it shine 
With beauty so surpassing all below, 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 

Of poesy which peoples but the air 
With thought and bebgs of our thought reflected, 
Can do no more : then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair and genius are too oft coimected. 

Within the ages which before me pass. 
Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias 

She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
Ye shall be taught by ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay. 

And Roman souls at last again shall hve 
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands. 
And temples loftier than the old temples, give 

New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A dome,' 2 its image, while the base expands 

Into a fane surpassing all before. 

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair, 
And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 
And the bold architect unto whose care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, 
Whether into the marble chaos driven 

His chisel bid the Hebrew,' ^ at whose word 
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone. 
Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 

0/er the damn'd before the Judgment throne,'* 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see. 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown. 
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me,* 
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 
'Vinidst tlie clash of swords and clang of helms. 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the age of beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity the nations with distress. 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A ct'dar towering o'er the wilderness, 
Jiovely ui all its branches to a'J eyes, 
Fra^i-ant as fair, and recognised afar, 



Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amid their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvas or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 

ShaU feel the power of that which they destroy , 
And art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy 

Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 

Her charms to pontiffs proud, ^'^ who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labours, and his soul to boot : 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. 

But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, 

Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest ?jid inspirest ! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine. 
Tread on the universal necks that bow. 

And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame. 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
Must pass their days in penury or pain. 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame. 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
Or if their destiny be borne aloof 
From low^liness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed ray roo^ 

I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse, 
The hate of injuries, which every year 
Makes greater and accumulates my curse, 

Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear. 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, 
The most infernal of all evils here, 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
For such sway is not limited to kings. 
And demagogues yield to them but in date 

As swept oflf sooner ; in all deadly things 

Which make men hate themselves and one anothei 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death, the Sin-born's incest with his mother. 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
The faction chief is but the sultan's brother. 

And the worst despot's far less human ape : 
Florence ! when this lone spirit which so long 
Yeam'd as the captive toiling at escape. 

To fly back to thee in despite of wrong. 
An exile, saddest of all prisoners. 
Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong. 

Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, 
Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 
Where, whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers, 

His country's, and might die where he had birth — 
Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth. 

And seek to honour with an empty urn 
The ashes thou shall ne'er obtain. — Alas ! 
"What have I done to thee, my people ?" '' Steni 

Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
The limits of man's common malice, for 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



46; 



Ali hat a citizen could be I wa-s ; 
Raised by thy will, aU thine in peace or war, 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis done: 

I may not overleap the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone, 

Beholding, with the dark eye of a seer, 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, 
Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 

As in the old time, till the hour be come 

When truth shall strike their eyes through man/ a tear, 
4ji i make them own the prophet in his tomb. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 457, Une 11. 
'Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd. 
The reader is requested to adopt the Itahan pronun- 
ciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 

Note 2. Page 458, line 9, 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 
' Che sol per le belle opre 
Chefanno in Cielo 11 sole e 1' altre stelle 
Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso, 
Cosi se guardi fiso 

Pensar ben del ch'ogni lerren' piacere." 
Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Bea- 
trice, strophe third. 

Note 3. Page 458, line 41. 
I would have had my Florence great and free. 

"L' esilio che m' e date onor mi tegno. 

****** 

" Cader tra' buoni e pur di lode degno." 

Sonnet of D ante , 
\n which he represents Right, Generosity, and Tem- 
perance, as banished from among m».o, and seeking 
refuge from Love, who inliabits his bosorv 

Note 4. Page 458, line 57. 
The dust she dooms to scatter. 
" Ut si quis prsedictorum uKo tempore in fortiam 
dicti communis pervenerit, talis perveniens igne com- 
huratiir^ sic quod moriatur.'''' 

Second sentence of Florence against Dante and the 
fourteen accused with him. — The Latin is worthy of 
the sentence. 

Note 5. Page 459, line 22. 
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she. 
This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one 
of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. 
Ccrso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibel- 
(ines. She is described as being " Admodum morosa, 
ut de Xantippe Socratis phitosophi conjuge scriptum 
esse legimus,''^ according to Giannozzo Manetti. But 
Lionardo Arelino is scandahzed with Boccace, in his 
life of Dante, for saying that literary men should not 
marry. " Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le 
mogli esser contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che 
Socrate il piu nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie 
e figltuoU e ufRcj della Repubblica nella sua Citta : e 
Aristotele che, etc., etc. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, 
ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai. — E Marco Tullio — 
e C atone — e Yarrone — e Seneca — ebbero moglie," etc., 
etc. It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with 
the exception ot Seneca, and, for any thing I know, of 



Aristotle, are not the most felicitous. TuUy's Terentia, 
and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to 
their husbands' happinee^s, whatever they might do to 
their philosophy — Cato gave away his wife — of Varro's 
we know nothing — and of Seneca's, only that she was 
disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived sev 
eral years afterwards. But, says Lionardo, " L'uomo 
6 animate civile, secondo niace a tutti i filosofi." Ana 
thence concludes that the greatestproof of the animaP 
civism is " la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multipli- 
cata nasce la Citta." 

Note 6. Page 459, line 119. 
Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set. 
See " Sacco diRoma," generally attributed to Guic- 
ciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buona- 
parte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si trovo pre- 
sente. 

Note 7. Page 460, Une 93. 
Conijuerors on foreign shores and the far wave. 
Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of 
Savoy, Montecucco. 

Note 8. Page 460, hne 94. 

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 

Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. 

Note 9. Page 461, line 1. 

He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, etc. 

A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pom 

pey took leave of CorneUa on entering the boat in 

which he was slain. 

Note 10. Page 461, line 4. 

And the first day which sees the chain enthral, etc. 

The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

Note 11. Page 461, line 21. 
And he their prince shall rank among my peers. 
Petrarch. 

Note 12. Page 462, Une 40. 
A dome, its image. 
The cupola of St. Peter's. 

Note 13. Page 462, Une 50. 
His chisel hid the Hebrew. 
The statue of Moses on the monument oi" Julius li. 

SONETO. 
Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. 

Chi e eostui, che in dura pietra scoito, 
Siede gigante ; e le piu illustri, e conte 
Prove deir arte avanza. e ha vive, e pronte 
Le labbia si, che le parole ascolto 1 

Quest, e Mose : ben me '1 dicera il folto 
Onor del mento, e '1 doppio raggio in fronte. 
Quest' e Mosci, quando scendea del monte 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto, 

Tal era allor che le sonant], e vasts 
Acque ei sospesc a se d'intorno, e tale 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba altrui 

E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate 1 
Alzata aveste imago a queste eeuale ! 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar cestui. 

Note 14. Page 462. Une 53. 
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne 
The Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel. 

Note 15. Paije 462, line 56. 
The stream of his great thoughts s-hall spring from n)«. 
I have read somewhere (if . do not err, f^jr I canni* 
recollect where) that Dante w^as so great a favourite <>> 



4(M 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Michel Ang-olo's, that he had designed the whole of 
the Divina Commedia ; but that the volume containing 
ihe^e studies was lost by sea. 

Note 16. Page 462, line 76. 
Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ, etc. 
See the treatment of Michel Angiolo by Julius II., 
and his neglect by Leo X. 



Note 17. Page 462, line 130. 

"What have I done to thee, my people?" 

" E scrisse piu volte non solamente a particolari cii 

tadini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra 1' 

altre una epistola assai lunga che comiucia : — ' Papule 

mi, quid feci tibi ?' " 

Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aietino. 



Suite KiijJliiutr; 

OR, 

CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The foundation of the following story will be found 
partly m the account of the Mutiny of the Bounty, in 
the South Sea, in 1789, and partly in Mariner's "Ac- 
count of the Tonga Islands." 



THE ISLAND. 



I. 

The morning watch was come : the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
The waters with their world were all before ; 
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately-shadow'd white. 
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight ; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun — 
Hut, ere he break, a deed is to be done. 

II. 

The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept: 
His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'c» , 
TLs name was added to the glorious roll 
Of ii.ose who search the storm-surrounded pole. 
The worst was o''?r, and the rest seem'd sure, 
And why should not his slumber be secure ? 
Alas ] his deck was trod by unwilling feet. 
And \i-ilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
Where summer years and summer women smile ; 
Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
Had found no native home, or found it changed, 
And, tiF.h''-unc;viiized, preferr'd the cave 
' If i»i)rae soft savage to the uncertain wave ; 



The gushing fruits that nature gave untili'd ; 

The wood without a path but whore they will'd ; 

The field o'er wliich promiscuous plenty pour'd 

Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 

The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 

In man — to have no master save his mood ; 

The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 

The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 

The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 

The general garden, where all steps may roam, 

Where Nature o%\tis a nation as her child, 

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 

Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know ; 

Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 

Their strangest sight, an European face; — 

Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 

To see again — a sight they dearly earn'd. 

III. 

Awake, bold Bligh ! the ibe is at the gate ! 

xlwake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast, 
The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest : 
Draag'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
That savage spirit, which ^vould lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
Glares round thee, in the scarce-beheving eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice ; 
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 

IV. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 

Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath: — 

They come not ; they arc few, and, overawed, 

Must acquiesce while sterner hearts applaud. 

In vain thou dost demand the cause ; a curse 

Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 

Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 

Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 

The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 

In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 

Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming '* Fj-e ! 

, But lliey who pitied not could yet admire ; 



rp: 

THE ISLAND. 46 ^> 


Some lurking remnant of their former aAve 


He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep 


Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 


The surge, is safe— his port is in the deep— 


They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 


And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind. 


But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 


Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 


V. 


vni. 


* Hoist out the boat !" was now the leader's cry : 


Wlien all was now prepared, the vessel clear 


And who dare answer "No" to mutiny, 


Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — 


In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 


A seaman, less obdurate than his mates. 


The Saturnaha of unhoped-for power ? 


Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ; 


The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, 


Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 


With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 


And told in signs repentant sympathy ; 


Her only cargo such a scant supply 


Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 


As promises the death their hands deny : 


Which felt exliaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 


And just enough of water and of bread 


But, soon observed, this guardian was withdraw^n. 


To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 


Nor fui-ther mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 


Some cordage, canvas, sails, and hues, and twine, 


Then forward stepp'd the bold and fro ward bov 


But treasures all to hermits of the brine, 


His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 


Were added after, to the earnest prayer 


And, pointing to the hopeless prow beneath, 


Of those who saw no hope save sea and air ; 


Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death !" 


And last, that trembling vassal of the pole. 


Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all: 


The feeling compass, navigation's soul. 


In that last moment could a word recall 


\1. 


Remorse for the black deed, as yet half-done. 


And, what he hid from many, show'd to one : 


And now the self-elected chief finds time 


When Bhgh, in stern reproach, demanded where 


To stun the first sensation of his crime. 


Was now his grateful sense of former care ?— 


And raise it in his followers—" Ho ! the bowl !" 


Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 


I. est passion should return to reason's shoal. 


And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher? 
His feverish hps thus broke their gloomy spell. 


" Brandy for heroes !" Burke could once exclaim, — 


No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 


" 'T is that ! 't is that ! I am in hell ! i^ hell !" 


And such the new-bom heroes found it here. 


No more he said ; but, urging to the bark 


And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 


His chief, commits him to his fragile ark : 


" Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry ; 


These the sole accents from his tongue that fell. 


How strange such shouts from sons of mutiny ! 


But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 


The gentle island, and the genial soil. 




The friendly hearts, the feast without a toil, 


IX. 


The courteous manners but from nature caught, 


The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 


The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought ; 


The breeze now sunk, now whisper'd from his cave 


Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, driven 


As on the jEoUan harp, his fitful wings 


Before the mast by every wind of heaven ?. 


Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 


And nov,', even now, prepared with others' woes 


With slow despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 


To earn mild virtue's vain desire — repose ? 


Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 


Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 


Which hfts its peak a cloud above the main : 


At the same end, by pathways not the same ; 


That boat and ship shall never meet aeain I 


Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name. 


But 't is not mine to tell their tale of grief. 


Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame. 


Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 


Are far more potent over jn elding clay 


Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 


Than aught we know bejond our little day. 


Their manly courage, even when deem'd in vain : 


Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 


The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 


Heard through gain's silence, and o'er glory's din : 


Knou-n to his mother in the skeleton ; 


Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 


The ills that lessen'd still their httle store. 


Man's conscience is the oracle of God ! 


And starved even hunger till he wrung no more ; 




The varying frowns and favours of the deeo. 


VII. 


That now almost engulfs, then leaves to creep 


The launch is crowded with the faithful few 


With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 


Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 


The tide, that yields reluctant to the strong ; 


But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 


The incessant fever of that arid thirst 


Of that proud vessel — now a moral -wreck — 


Which welcomes, as a well, the clouils thai liiirsi 


And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes ; 


Above their naked bones, and feels delight 


While others scoff'd his augur'd miseries. 


In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 


Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail, 


And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 


And the shght bark, so laden and so frail. 


A drop to moisten Ufe's all-gasping springs ; 


The tender nautilus who steers his prow, 


The savage foe escaped, to seek again 


The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe. 


More hospitable shelter from the main-, 


The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea. 


The ghastly spectres which were doom'd ut ,a*' 


> Seems far less fragile, and, alas I more free ! 


To tell as tru-j a tale of dangers pasU 


2S 64 

I 





463 



BYRON S WORKS, 



A? ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 

X. 

vVc leave t>\em to their fate, but not unkno\\Ti 

Nor unredress'd ! Revenge may have her own : 

Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 

And injured navies urge their broken laws. 

Pursue we on his track the mutineer, 

Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear 

Wide o'er the wave — away! away! away! 

Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay; 

Once more the happy shores without a law 

Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw • 

Nature, and nature's goddess — Woman — woos 

To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; 

Where all partake the earth without dispute, 

And broad itself is gather'd as a fruit ; ^ 

Where none contest the fields, the woods, the streams:- 

The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 

Inhabits or inhabited the shore, 

Till Europe taught them better than before, 

Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 

But left her vices also to their hei^s. 

Away with this ! behold them as they were, 

Do good with nature, or with nature eir. 

"Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry. 

As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 

The breeze springs up ; the lately-flapping sail 

Extends its arch before the gi-owing gale ; 

In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, 

Wliich her bold bow flings off with dashing ease. 

Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam ; 

But those she wafted still look'd back to home — 

These spurn their country with their rebel bark. 

And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 

A ad yet they seek to nestle with the dove, 

A ad tame their fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO II. 



I. 

How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,^ 

When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 

And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 

The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 

We '11 cull the flowers that grow above the dead. 

For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head ; 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon dancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighmg bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 

1 The now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant which Cap 
tain Blitfh's expedition was undertaken. 

2 The first three sections are taken from an actual song of 
the Toiiiia Islanders, of which a prose translation is given In 
Mariner's .Sccniint of the Tonga Islands. Toobonai is not 
however onp of them ; but was one of tliose where Christian 
and the mutineers took refuge. 1 have altered and added, but 
have regained <m much as possible of the original 



Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray 
How beautiful are these, how happy they. 
Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives. 
Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives ' 
Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon. 
And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 

II. 

Yes — from the sepulchre we '11 gather flowers. 

Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers. 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 

Then lay our hmbs along the tender turf. 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil. 

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave 

But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back. 

The sound of mats is heard along our track ; 

Anon the torchlight-dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the INIarly's green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival, 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the first time were wafted in canoes. 

Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds ; 

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown. 

Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 

But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 

The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field ; 

Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 

But feast to-night ! to-morrow we depart. 

Strike up the dance, the cava bowl fill high, 

Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 

In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 

Around our waist the Tappa's white display'd ; 

Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, hke spring's, 

And round our necks shall glance the Hooni strings t 

So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart. 
But not to-night— to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo. 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense. 
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep. 
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep : 
We too will see Licoo ; but oh ! my heart — 
What do I say ? to-morro we depart. 

IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmonv of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are nature's growth— 
But only the barbarian's — we have both ; 
The sordor of civiUzation, mix'd 
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix a. 
Who hath not seen dissimulation's reign. 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ? 
Who such would see, may from his lattice view 
The old world more degraded than the new — 



i 



THE ISLAND. 



46' 



Now new no jaore, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by freedom to her spheres, 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, vv^ave, 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 

V. 

Such was this ditty of tradition's days, 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound, whose charm is half divine ; 
Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye, 
But yields young history all to harmony ; 
A boy Achilles, with the Centaur's lyre 
In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire : 
For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave. 
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side. 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide. 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
Than all the columns conquest's minions rear ; 
Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For sages' labours or the student's dream ; 
Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil, — 
The first, the freshest bud of feeling's soil. 
Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the rude — 
But such mspired the Norseman's sohtude. 
Who came and conquer'd ; such, wherever rise 
Lands which no foes destroy or civilize, 
Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 
Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart? 

VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 

The sweet siesta of a summer day, 

The. tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 

And the first breath began to stir the palm, 

The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 

AH gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 

Where sate the songstress with the stranger boy, 

Who taught her passion's desolating joy, 

Too powerful over every heart, but most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost j 

O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire. 

Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 

With such devotion to their ecstasy, 

That life knov/s no such rapture as to die : 

And die they do ; for earthly life has nought 

Malch'd with that burst of nature, even in thought : 

And all our dreams of better Ufe above 

But close in one eternal gush of love. 

VII. 

There sate the gentle salvage of the wild. 
In growth a woman, though in years a child. 
As childhood dates within our colder clime. 
Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 
The infant of an infant world, as pure 
From nature — lovely, warm, and premature; 
Dusky like night, but night with all her stars, 
Or cavern sparkling with its native spars; 
With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
A form like Aphrodite's in her shell ; 
With all her loves around her on the deep, 
Toluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 



Yet full of life— for through her tropic cheek 

The blush would make its way, and all but speak 

The sun-born blood diffused her neck, and threv/ 

O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue, 

Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave. 

Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the Southern Seas, 

Herself a billow in her energies. 

To bear the bark of others' happiness. 

Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less . 

Her wild and warm, yet faithful bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues ; 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not. 

Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot : 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pa5S 

O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 

Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the hiii. 

Restore their surface^ in itself so still. 

Until the earthquake tear the Naiad's cave, 

Root up the spring, and trample on the wave. 

And crush the hving waters to a mass. 

The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 

And must their fate be hers ? The eternal change 

But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 

And they who fall, but fall as worlds will fall, 

To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 

VIII. 

And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 
Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 
The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides, 
Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 
Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind. 
The tempest-born in body and in mind. 
His young eyes opening on the ocean foam. 
Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home. 
The giant comrade of his pensive moods. 
The sharer of his craggy solitudes, 
The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 
His bark was borne, the spot of wave and air ; 
A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 
Nursed by the legends of his land's romance ; 
Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 
Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 
Placed in the Arab's cUme, he would have been 
As bold a rover as the sands have seen. 
And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 
As Ishmael wafted on his desert-ship ; ' 
Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud Cacique ; 
On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek ; 
Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 
Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 
If rear'dto such can find no firther prey 
Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,^ 
Plunging for pleasure into pain ; the same 
Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's woist shame. 



1 The "ship of the desert" is the oriental figure for in» 
camel or dromedary ; and they deserve the metaphor well ; Ih* 
former for his endurance, the latter for his swiftness 
2 "Lucullus, when frugality could charm. 
Had wasted turnips in l>is Sabine farm. '— Pop* 



4GS 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



An humbler state and discipline of heart 
Had formed his glorious namesake's counterpart : * 
Bui grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
How small their theatre without a throne ! 

IX. 
Thou smilest, — these comparisons seem high 
To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 
Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 
Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, 
With Chili, Helias, or with Araby. 
Thou smilest! — smile ; 'tis better thus than sigh; 
Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 
A soaring spirit ever in the van, 
A patriot hero or despotic chief. 
To form a nation's glory or its grief. 
Born under auspices which make us more 
(>r less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
But these are visions ; say, what was he here? 
A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 
The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray. 
The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 



By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, — 

Neuha, the sun-flower of the Island daughters, 

High-born (a birth at which the herald smiles. 

Without a 'scutcheon for these secret isles) 

Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 

The naked knights of savage chivalry. 

Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore, 

And thine, — I 've seen, — Achilles ! do no more. 

She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came 

In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 

Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 

Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm ; 

But, when the winds awaken'd shot forth wings 

Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 

And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 

Making the very billows look less free ; — 

She, with her paddling oar and dancmg prow, 

Shot through the surf, Irke reindeer through the snow. 

Swift gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge. 

Light as a Nereid in her ocean-sledge, 

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk 

Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk : 

The anchor dropp'd, it lay along the deep, 

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 

While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 

Like summer-bees that hum around his mane. 

XI. 
The white man landed ; — need the rest be told? 
The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to the old ; 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
Kmd was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 
And kmder still their daughters' gentler fires. 

1 Tho Consul Nero, who made the unequalled march which 
leceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrubal; thereby accom- 
ulishins an achievement almost u-nrivalied in mihtary annals. 
The. first intellieence of his return, to Hannibal, was the sight 
j)f AsdrubaPs head thrown hito his camp. When Hannibal 
«aw this, he exclaimed, with a si?h, that " Rome would now 
be the mistress of tiie world." And yet to this victory of Nero's 
it might be owine that his imperial namesake reigned at all ! 
fvut ine infamy of one has eclipsed tiie glory of the other. 
V\'h.?n the name of " Nero " is neard, who thinks of the Con- 
wiJ 7 But Bucu are human thines 



Their union grew : the children of the storm 

Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 

While these in tur.i admired the paler glow, 

Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snt, 

The chase, the race, the liberty to roam. 

The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 

The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 

Which stemm'd the studded Archipelago, 

O'er whose blue bosom r^se the starry isles ; 

The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils ; 

The palm, the loftiest Dryad of the woods. 

Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods. 

While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 

Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast ; 

The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, 

Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and frui". ; 

The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, yidiU* 

The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields. 

And bakes its unadulterated loaves 

Without a furnace in unpurchased groves. 

And flings off famine from its fertile breast,. 

A priceless market for the gathering guest ; — 

These, with the lu.xuries of seas and woods, 

The airy joys of social sohtudes. 

Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 

Of those who were more happy if less wise, 

Did more than Europe's dicipline had done. 

And civilized civilization's son ! 

XII. 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 

Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair : 

Both children of the isles, though distant far ; 

Both born beneath a sea-presiding star ; 

Both nourish'd amidst nature's native scenes, 

Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 

Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 

W^hich still reverts to what first caught the eye. 

He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue, 

Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue. 

Hail in each crag a friend's famihar face, 

And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 

Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mme, 

Adored the Alp and loved the Apennine, 

Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 

Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep . 

But 't was not all long ages' lore, nor all 

Their nature held me in their thriUing thrall j 

The infant rapture still survived the boy. 

And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Trey,' 

MLx'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount. 

And Highland hnns with Castalie's clear fount. 

Forgive me. Homer's universal shade ! 

Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 

The North and Nature taught me to adore 

Your scenes sublime from those beloved before. 



1 When very young, about eight years of age, after an ai tack 
of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen, 1 was removed by medical 
advice into the Highlands. Here I passed occasionally some 
summers, and from this period I date my love of mountainous 
countries. I can never forget the effect a few years afterwards 
in England, of the only thing I had long seen, even in min- 
iature, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After 1 returned 
to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon at sun- 
set, with a sensation which I cannot describe. I his was boyish 
enough : but I was then only thirteen year of age, and it was 
in the holidays 



THE ISLAND. 



4G9 



XIII. 

The love, which m..- .'h all things fond and fair, 
The youlh, which mak^ ""oe rainbow of the air, 
The dangers past, that ma.. *iven man enjoy 
Th<! pause in which he ceasess .o destroy, 
T'le mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 
United the half savage and the whole, 
The maid and boy, m one absorbing soul. 
No more the thundering memory of the fight 
Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 
No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
Disturb'd him like the eagk in her nest, 
Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
Darts for a victim over all the sky ; 
His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 
At once elysian and effeminate, 
Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; — 
These wither when tof aught save blood they burn ; 
Yet, when their ashes in their nook are laid. 
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
Had Cassar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 
And what have Caesar's deeds and Csesar's fame 
Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 
The gory sanction of his glory stains 
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
Though glory, nature, reason, freedom, bid 
Roused millions do what single Brutus did, — 
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 
From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long,- 
Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls. 
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 
When but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 

Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife. 
With no distracting world to call her off 
From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
Her duty, and her glory, and her joy ; 
With faith and feelings naked as her form. 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm. 
Changing its hues with bright variety. 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move. 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 

XV. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore. 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
Nor long the hours — they never paused o'er time, 
(TnDroken by the clock's funereal chime. 
Which deals the daily pittance of our span. 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
What deem'd they of the future or the past? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast ; 
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide. 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide : 
Their clock the sun in his unbounded tower ; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 
-^ S 2 



The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ; ' 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep. 
But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft. 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave. 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
And then, for Hght, into each other's eyes. 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun. 
And asking if indeed the day were done ? 

XVI. 

And let not this seem strange ; the devotee 

Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven,— 

His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 

Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod. 

Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 

The other better self, whose joy or woe 

Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 

Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 

Wrapt in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pile. 

Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 

How often we forget all time, when lone. 

Admiring nature's universal throne. 

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 

Reply of hers to our inteUigence ! 

Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 

Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 

Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 

No, no : — they woo and clasp us to their spheres. 

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 

Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 

Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 

Who thinks of self, when gazmg on the sky ? 

And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 

In the young moments ere the heart is taught 

Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own? 

All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echo'd their dim hght to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm. 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as love — the spirit ! when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,* 



1 The now well-known story of the loves of the nightingale 
and rose, need not be more than alluded to, being sufficiently 
familiar to the Western as to the Eastern reader, 

2 If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on his 
chimney-pi-sce, he will be aware of what is alluded to. If the 
text should appear obscure, he will find in ' Gebir " the same 
idea better expressed in two lines. — The poem T never repd, 
but have heard the lines quoted by a more recondite readet- 
who seems to be of a different opinion from Ctie Editor of the 
Quarterly Review, who qualified it, in his answer to the 
Critical Reviewer oP his Journal, as tiash of the worst and 
most insane description. It is to Mr. Landor, the authoi 
of Gebir, so qualified, and of some Latin poems, which via 
with Martial or Catullus in obscenity, that the imraaculaiti 
Mr. Southey addresses his declamation asainst impurity .' 



170 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As, far divi()eJ from his parent deep, 
The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest. 
The tropic-bird wheel'd rock- ward to his nest. 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 

Not such as would have been a lover's choice 

In such an hour to break the air so still ! 

No d^'ing nisht-breeze, harping o'er the hill. 

Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 

Thoi^e best and earliest lyres of harmony. 

With echo for their chorus ; nor the alarm 

Of the loud war-whoop to dispei the charm ; 

Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 

Exhaling all his solitary soul. 

The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 

Who peals his dreary psean o'er the night ; — 

But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 

As ever startled through a sea-bird's bill ; 

And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 

Torquil ! my boy! what cheer? Ho, brother, ho !" 

"Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 

The sound. " Here 's one !" was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 

But here the herald of the self-same mouth 

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south. 

Not like a " bed of violets " on the gale, 

Bui such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale. 

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odours over either zone. 

And, puff'd where'er winds rise or waters roll. 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd. 

And reek'd, 'midst mountain billows unabash'd, 

To yEolus a constant sacrifice. 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 

And what was he who bore it? — I may err. 

But deem him sailor or philosopher. * 

Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 

Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest ; 

Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 

His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 

Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, 

Th-ouah not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand , 

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 

Wlien tipp'd with amber, yellow, rich, ard ripe ; 

Like other charmers, wooing the caress 

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 

Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 

XX. 

Through the approachnig darkness of the wood 
A human figure broke the solitude, 
Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Si.ch as appears to rise from out the deep, 
When o'er the Line the merry vessels sweep, 



And the rough Saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car ; 
And, pleased, the god of ocean sees, his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot m a breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyciades. 
Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
To snatch some gUmpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim. 
His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim. 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait. 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Not over tightly bound, or nicely spread ; 
And, stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their thorn) 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat ; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face. 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arras were all his own, our Europe's gro'.^-th. 
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders, broad 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode, 
But brawny as the boar's ; and, hung beneath, 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath. 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off); 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
Completed his accoutrements, as night 
Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 

XXI. 

" What cheer, Ben Bunting ?" cried (when in full viev» 

Our new acquaintance) Torquil ; " Aught of new ?" 

" Ey, ey," quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow ; 

A strange sail in the offing." — " Sail ! and how 1 

What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be ; 

I 've seen no rag of canvas on the sea." 

" Belike," said Ben, "you might not from the bay 

But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 

I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 

Was light and baffling." — " When the sun declined 

Where lay she? had she anchor'd?" — " No, but sti'.l 

She bore do•,^^l on us, till the wind grew still." 

" Her flag ?" — " I had no glass ; but, fore and aft 

Egad, she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 

" Arm'd ?" — " I expect so — sent on the look-out : — 

'T is time, behke, to put our helm about." 

" About ? — Whate'er may have us now in chase. 

We '11 make no running fight, for that were base ; 

We will die at our quarters, like true men." 

" Ey, ey ; for that, 't is all the same to Ben." 

" Does Christian know this ?" — "Ay ; he 's piped iJ 

hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted." — " That 's but fairj 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 



I Hobhes, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, was 
»") inveterate smokPT — even to pipes beyond computation. 



1 This rough but joviai ceremony, used in crossing the 
Line, has been so often and so well described, that itne«d no. 
be more than alluded to. 



THE ISLAND. 



47] 



My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 

Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 

But whatsoe'er betide, ah ! Neuha, now 

(Jnman me not ; the hour will not allow 

A tear ; I'm thine, whatever intervenes!" 

*' Right," quoth Ben, "that will do for the marines."' 



CANTO III. 



I. 

The fight was o'er : the flashing through tho gloom. 

Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb. 

Had ceased ; and sulphury vapours upwards driven 

Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 

The rattling roar which rung in every volley 

Had left the valleys to their melancholy ; 

No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom ; 

The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 

The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 

Or hved to deem the happiest were the slain. 

Few, few, escaped, and these were hunted o'er 

The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 

No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth, 

Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 

Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild, 

As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 

But vainly wolves and Uons seek their den. 

And still more vainly men escape from men. 

II. 

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 

Far over ocean in his fiercest moods. 

When scaling his enormous crag, the wave 

Is hurl'd down headlong like the foremost brave, 

And falls back on the foaming crowd behind. 

Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 

But now at rest, a little remnant drew 

Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 

But still their weapons in their hands, and still 

With something of the pride of former will, 

As men not all unused to meditate. 

And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 

Their present lot was what they had foreseen. 

And dared as what was likely to have been ; 

yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their lot 

Not pardon'd, but unsought-for or forgot, 

Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 

Might still be miss'd amidst that world of waves. 

Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they saw 

And felt — the vengeance of their country's law. 

Their sea-green isie, their guilt-won paradise, 

No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 

Their belter feelings, if such were, were thrown 

Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 

r'roscnbed even in their second country, they 

Were lost ; in vain the world before them lay ; 

All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 

Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 

But what avail'd the club and spear and arm 

3f Hercules, against the sulphury charm, 



1 "That will do for the marines, but tho sailors won't be- 
•ip.ve it," is an old saying, and one of the few fragments of 
rorriier jealousies which still survive (in jest only) between 
these gallant services. 



The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd "^ 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave ! ' 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft will dare and do ; 
But though the choice seems nati\ ,.' to die free, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thcirmopyloe, 
Till noto, when she has forged her broken chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and hves again ! 

III. 

Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd, 

Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 

Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn. 

But still the hunter's blood was on their horn. 

A little stream came tumbling from the height. 

And straggling into ocean as it might. 

Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray. 

And gush'd from cleft to crag with saltless spray ; 

Close on the wild wide ocean, yet as pure 

And fresh as innocence, and more secure. 

Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 

As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep. 

While far below the vast and sullen swell 

Of ocean's Alpine azure rose and fell. 

To this young spring they rush'd,— all feelings first 

Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 

Drank as they do who drink their last, and tnrew 

Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 

Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory stai^ < 

From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 

Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd sad _ 

round. 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless : — but silent all. 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 

IV. 

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest. 
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue, once spread 
Along his cheek, was livid now as lead ; 
His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow. 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
Still as a statue, with his lips compress'd 
To stifle even the breath within his breast. 
Fast by the rock, all menacing but mute, 
He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot, 
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to Aim. 
Some paces further, Torquil lean'd his head 
Against a bank, ana spoke not, but he bled, — 
Not mortally — his worst wound was within : 
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in. 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
Show'd that his faintness came not from despau, 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another, 
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 



1 Archidamus, King of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus, wn»>v 
he saw a machine invented for the casting of stones and (iaru 
exclaimed that it was "the grave of valour." The same sto.^ 
has been told of some knights, on the first application of pin 
powder ; but the original anecf^ote is in P'atarch. 



•172 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 

And bind his wound — then calmly ht his pipe — 

A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 

A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 

The fourth and last of this deserted group 

Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then stoop 

To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 

Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 

Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 

Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 

And then his former movements would redouble. 

With something between carelessness and trouble. 

This is a long description, but applies 

To scarce five minutes past before the eyes ; 

But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 

Rend men's lives into immortalities. 



V. 

At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 

Who flutter'd over all things like a fan. 

More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 

And die at once than wrestle with despair, 

Exclaim'd " God damn !" Those syllables intense,- 

Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 

As the Turk's " Allah !" or the Roman's more 

Pagan " Proh Jupiter !" was wont of yore 

To give their first impressions such a vent. 

By way of echo to embarrassment. 

Tack was embarrass'd, — never hero more. 

And as he knew not what to say, he swore ; 

Nor swore in vain : the long congenial sound 

Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound ; 

He drew ii from his mouth, and look'd full wise. 

But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 

Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete — 

A peroration I need not repeat. 

VI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 

Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 

Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 

Of passion reeking from his clouded face ; 

Till lifting up again his sombre eye. 

It glanced on Torquil who lean'd faintly by. 

" And is it thus?" he cried, "unhappy boy ! 

And thee, too, thee my madness must destroy." 

He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 

yet dabbled with his lately-flowing blood ; 

Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press. 

And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 

Inquired into his state, and, when he heard 

The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 

A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow. 

As much as such a moment would allow. 

" Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the toil, 

But not a coward or a common spoil ; 

Dearly they have bought us— dearly still may buy,- 

And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly? 

'T wuiild be some comfort still, could you survive ; 

Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 

Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell. 

To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ! 

Po) mo, my lot is what x sought ; to be, 

Ip li{« or death, the fearless and the free." 



VII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory. 
Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew. 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew : 
Onward it came — and, lo ! a second foUow'd — 
Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was hollow 'd. 
And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
Presented well-knov/n aspects to the view. 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play. 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below. 
Which flings it broad and boiling, sheet on sheet. 
And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet: 
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 
The barks, like small bii-ds through a louring sky. 
Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
The wave, of these born playmates of the deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leap'd like a Nereid from her shell to land. 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy? 
Neuha, — the fond, the faithful, the adored. 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd ; 
And smiled, and wept, and near and nearer clasp'd, 
As if to be assured 't was him she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then* 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despa--'. 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all dehght : 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost heard to thr< •. 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child and nature's ecstacy. 

IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 

Were not unmoved ; who are when hearts are gf *ig? 

Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 

With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 

Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 

In hopeless visions of our better days. 

When all 's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 

*' And but for me !" he said, and turn'd away ; 

Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 

A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 

And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 

As heedless of his further destinies. 



But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 

The billows round the promontory brought 

The plash of hostile oars — Alas ! who made 

That sound a dread ? All round them seem'd array'd 

Against them save the bride of Toobonai : 

She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay, 

Of the arm'd boats which hurried to complete 

The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 

Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 

Embark'd their guests, and launch'd their hght canoes; 



THE ISLAND. 



In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own — Away I away ! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
Tliej' gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
Again make way and menace o'er the main; 
And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
To baftle the pursuit — Away ! away ! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
And more than life or lives to Neuha : love 
Freights the frail bark, and urges to the cove — 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Y"et. vet a moment ! — Fly, thou light ark, fly ! 



CANTO IV 



I. 

White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon 's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremit}'. 
Her anchor parts ; but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale ; 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more. 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 

II. 

Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 

A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 

The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind. 

Where the rough seal reposes from the wind. 

And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun. 

Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun ; 

There shrilly to the passing car is heard 

The startled echo of the ocean bii-d. 

Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood. 

The feather'd fishes of the solitude. 

A narrow segment of the yellow sand 

On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 

Here the yoimg turtle, crawling from his shell 

Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 

Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 

But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 

The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 

Gave mariners a shelter and despair, 

A spot to make the saved regret the deck 

Which late went dorni, and envy the lost wreck. 

Such was the stem asylum Neuha chose 

To shield her lover from his following foes ; 

But all its secret was not told ; she knew 

In this a treasure hidden from the ^■\evr. 

III. 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot. 
The men that mann'd what held her Torquil's lot, 
By her command removed, to strengthen more 
The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 
This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 
She pointed cahnly to the craggy isle, 
65 



And bade him " speed ant. prosper." She would takfl 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 

They parted with this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star, 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 

Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 

They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled with the sea. 

And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 

The prow now ahnost lay within its length 

Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 

With nought but soundless waters for its base ; 

Within a hundred boats' length was the foe. 

And now what refiige but their frail canoe ? 

This Torquil ask'd u'ith half- upbraiding eye. 

Which said — " Has Xeuha brought me here to die ? 

Is this a place of safety, or a grave. 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ?" 

IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 

Neuha, and, pointing to the approaching foes. 

Cried, " Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow !" 

Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 

There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 

Chains in his eye and menace in his ear : 

With vigour they pull'd on, and as they came, 

Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 

Headlong he leap'd — to him the swimmer's skill 

Was native, and now all his hope from ill ; 

But how or where ? He dived, and rose nr more ; 

The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er^ea a ;d shore 

There was no landing on that precipice. 

Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 

They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 

But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 

The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face. 

Since their first plunge, recaR'd a suigle trace ; 

The little v.hirl which eddied, and slight foam. 

That whiten'd o'er whafseem'd their latest home, 

White as a sepulchre above the pair. 

Who left no marble (mournful as an heir). 

The quiet proa, wavering o'er the tide. 

Was all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 

And but for this alone, the whole might seem 

The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 

They paused and search'd in vain, then ptill'd awa> 

Even superstition now forbade their s^ay. 

Some said he had not plunged into the wave, 

But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave ^ 

Others, that something supernatural 

Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall : 

While all agreed, that in his cheek and eye 

There was tlie dead hue of eternity. 

Still as their oars receded from the crag. 

Round every weed a moment would they lag, 

Expectant of some token of their prey ; 

But no — he 'd melted from them like the spraj. 

Y. 

And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep. 
Following the Nereid ? Had they ceased to werr- 
For ever ? or, received in coral caves. 
Wrung hfe and pity from the softening waves '' 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell. 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell ? 



474 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Did Neuha wuh the mormaids comb her hair, 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air ? 
Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leap'd ? 

VI. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 

FoUow'd : her track beneath her native sea 

Was as a native's of the element, 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of light behind her heel. 

Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious steel. 

Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 

The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 

Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 

Pursued her liquid steps with art and ease. 

Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 

The way — then upward soar'd — and, as she spread 

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 

Ijaugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks. 

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 

But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave. 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave,' 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen. 

Save through the billows' glassy veil of green. 

In some transparent ocean holiday. 

When all the finny people are at play), 

Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise; 

Led lim to where the rock appear'd to jut 

And firm a something like a Triton's hut. 

For aL was darkness for a space, till day 

Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 

As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 

The dusty monuments from light recoil, 

Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 

The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 

VIL 
Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 
A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
Of the same plantain leaf, a flint she took, 
A few shrunk \vither'd twigs, and from the blade 
Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 
The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high. 
And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy; 
The arch uprear'd by nature's architect. 
The ai-chitrave some earthquake might erect ; 
Tli(i buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd, 
When the poles crash'd and v.'ater was the world ; 
Or harrlen'd from some earth-absorbing fire. 
While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral p}Te ; 
The fretted pinnacle, thp aisle, the nave,^ 
Wore I here, all scoop'd by darkness from her cave. 



1 Uf this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be found 
itilnefllh chapter of Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands. 
I have taken the poetical liberty to transplant it toToobonai, 
the last island where any distinct account is left of Christian 
and his comrades. 

2 This may seem too minute for the general outline (in 
Mariner's -/^ccoMTit) from which it is taken. But few men have 
travelleil without seeing something of the kind — on ianrf, tliat 
U ^MtJinut iidvertmg to Elora, in Mungo Park's last 'ournal 



There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high, 
And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
And built herself a chapel of the seas 

VIII. 

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand. 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been pr<^pared 
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared ; 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal-oil to fence against the dew; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Born of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
With its broad leaf, or turtie-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh if cover'd o'er ; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying fight. 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe. 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower, 
And now she spread her little store with smiles. 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'a 
Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast ; 
And, suited to her sofl; caresses, told 
An elden tale of love, — for love is old, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be bom : ' 
How a young Chief, a thousand moons ago, 
Diving for turtle in the depths below, 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey. 
Into the cave which round and o'er them lay ; 
How, in some desperate feud of after time. 
He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe. 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe ; 
How, when the storm of v/ar was still, he led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deep green shadow o'er the rocky door. 
Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their barb 
Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 



(if my memory do not err, for there are eight years since i reai 
the book) he mentions having met with a rock or mountain 
so exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, that only minute 
inspection could convince him that it was a work of nature. 
1 The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek AnlhoJ 
ogy, or its translation into most of the modern languages 

" Whoe'er thou art, thy master Sbe 

He was, or is, or is to be." 



THE ISLAND. 



475 



Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 

Then paused upon their paddles from the shock, 

\¥hen, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 

A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 

And their companion, glorious by her side, 

Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride : 

And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore. 

With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore ; 

How they had gladly lived and calmly died, 

And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 

Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 

Which foliow'd wildly in that wild recess 

This tale ; enough that all within that cave 

Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 

Where Abelard, through twenty years of death. 

When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 

Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and press'd 

The kindling ashes to his kindled breast. ' 

The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 

As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 

Within, their hearts made all their harmony, 

Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 

X. 
And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock. 
Where were they? O'er the sea for life they plied, 
To seek from heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but where ? 
The wave which bore them still, their foes would bear, 
Who, disappointed of their former chase, 
In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 
Eager with anger, their strong arms made way, 
Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
No further chance or choice remain'd ; and right 

For the first further rock which met their sight 

They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 

And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 

Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 

Would still have battled for that scanty crew ; 

But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 

Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 

For what were simple bow and savage spear 

Against the arms which must be wielded here ? 
XI. 

They landed on a wild but narrow scene. 

Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 

Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye. 

Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity. 

When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 

To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 

They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 

Who dyed Thermopylge with holy blood. 

But, ah ! how different ! 't is the cause makes all, 

Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 

O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 

Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd hence; 

No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 

Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 

No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent. 

No heroes envy them their monument ; 

1 The tradition is attached to the story of Eloisa, that when 
her body was lowered into the grave of Abelard (who had 
teen buried twenty years) he opened his arm* to receive her. 



However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 
Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
And this they knew and felt, at least the one. 
The leader of the band he had undone ; 
Who, born perchance for better things, had set 
His life upon a cast which Hnger'd yet : 
But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
The chances were in favour of his fall : 
And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock, 
Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 

XII. 

The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the cre>v 

To act whatever duty bade them do ; 

Careless of danger, as the onward wind 

Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind : 

And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

Against a nation's than a native foe. 

And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 

Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 

They hail'd him to surrender — no reply ; 

Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 

They hail'd again — no answer ; yet once more 

They offer'd quarter louder than before. 

The echoes only, from the rocks rebound. 

Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 

Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame, 

And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 

While the rocks rattled with the bullets' knell. 

Which peal'd in vain, and flatten'd as they fell ; 

Then flew the only answer to be given 

By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 

After the first fierce peal, as they pull'd nigher. 

They heard the voice of Christian shout, " Now fire ! " 

And, ere the word upon the echo died, 

Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side. 

And, furious at the madness of their foes, 

Disdain'd all further efforts, save to close. 

But steep the crag, and all without a path. 

Each- step opposed a bastion to their wrath ; 

While placed 'midst clefts the least accessible. 

Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 

The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 

In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 

Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 

Dash'd on the shingles like the limpid shell ; 

But still enough survived, and mounted stiii, 

Scattering their numbers here and there, until 

Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 

Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 

The desperate trio held aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bail. 

Yet to the very last they battled well. 

And not a groan inform'd their foes who fell. 

Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once morr 

Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 

Too late for life, but not too late to die. 

With though a hostile hand to close his eye. 

A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 

The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 

The sound revived him, or appear'd to waKe 

Some passion which a weakly gesture spak*- ^ 

He beckon'd to the foremost who drew nigh. 

But, as they near'd. he rear'd his weaoon hia^- 



176 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



His last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 

He tore the topmost button of his vest, ' 

Down the lube dash'd it, levellM, fired, and smiled 

As his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coil'd 

His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 

l^ook'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 

Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and shook 

Hi!; last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook; 

Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 

His body crush'd into one gory mass, 

■With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 

Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 

A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds. 

Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds ; 

Some splinters of his weapons (to the last, 

As long as hand could hold, he held them fast) 

Yet ghtter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 

To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 

The rest was nothing — save a life mispent, 

And soul — but who shall answer where it went ? 

'T is ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 

Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 

Tjnless these bullies of eternal pains 

Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 

xni. 

The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en. 

The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 

Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 

riiey stood with honour, were the wretched few 

Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 

But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 

Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 

While o'er them flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing, 

Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge, 

And screaming high their harsh and hungiy dirge : 

But ca.m and careless heaved the wave below. 

Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 

Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 

And sprung the flying-fish against the sun, 

Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 

To gather moisture for another flight. 

XW. 

'T was morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
It flapp'd, it filled, and to the growing gale 
Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 
With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high. 
While yet a doubt sprung where its course might uo 
But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 

1 In 'I'hibaulVs Mcountnf Frederick II. of Prussia, there 
is a sin-iular relation of a youn^ Frenchman, who, with his 
mistress, appeared to be of some rank. He enlisted, and de- 
serted ill fecweidnitz ; arid, after a desperate resistance, was 
letakcii, having niHed an officer, who attempted to seize him 
rtfter he was wounded, by the discharfre of his musket loaded 
with a biittnn of his uniform. Some circumstances on his 
eo'iit-martiaJ raised a great interest amongst his judges, who 
wished to ili«cover his real situation in life, which he offered 
to disclose, but tc the Kins only, to whom he requested per- 
>iiasion to write. This was refused, and Frederick was filled 
svith the greatest indignation, from baffled curiosity, or some 
iiher niotivp, when he understood that his request had been de- 
hwi -<•^G ThibauWs work, vol. ii. — (I quote from memory). 



She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes. 
To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck — 
Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy 
Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
That happy love could augur or recall ; 
Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
His bounding Nereid over the broad sea ; 
Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
Drilting along the tide, without an oar, 
That eve the strangers chased them from the shore , 
Cut when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
Regain'd, and urged to w^here they found it now : 
Nor ever did more love and joy embark. 
Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 

XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the \iew. 

No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 

No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home ! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 

With sounding bells, and heralded their way ; 

The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 

And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 

The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 

By Neuha, asking v/here they had been chased, 

And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and then 

One acclamation rent the sky again ; 

And from that hour a new tradition gave 

Their sanctuary the name of "Neuha's cave." 

A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 

Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 

The feast in honour of the guest, return'd 

To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd ; 

A night succeeded by such happy days 

As only the yet infant world displays. 



APPENDIX. 



EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE 

BY CAPTAIN BLIGH. 

On the 27th of December, it blew a severe storm wf 
wind from the eastward, in the course of which we suf- 
fered greatly. One sea broke away the spare yards 
and spars out of the starboard main-chains ; another 
broke into the ship, and stove all the boats. Several 
casks of beer that had been lashed on deck, broke loose, 
and were washed overboard ; and it was not without 
great risk and difficulty that we were able to secure the 
boats from being washed away entirely. A great quan- 
tity of our bread was also damaged, and rendered use- 
less, for the sea had stove in our stern, and filled the 
cabin with water. 

On the 5th of January, 17S8, we saw the island of 
Teneriffe about twelve leagues distant, and next day, 
being Sunday, came to an anchor in the road of Santa 
Cruz. There we took in the necessary supplies, and, 
having finished our business, sailed on the 10th. 

I now divided the people into three watches, and gave 
the charge of the third watch to Mr. Fletcher Christian 



THE ISLAND. 



AVi 



line of the mates, I have, always considered this a de 
sirable regulation wnen circumstances will admit of 
it, and I am persuaded tliat unbroken rest not only con- 
tributes much towards the health of the ship's company, 
Dut enables them more readily to exert themselves in 
cases of sudden emergency. 

As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stopping, 
I reduced the allowance of bread to two-thirds, and 
caused the water for drinking to be filtered through 
drip-stones, bought at Teneriffe for that purpose. I 
now acquainted the ship's company of the object of the 
voyage, and gave assurances of certain promotion to 
every one whose endeavours should merit it. 

On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south 
latitude 29° 38', and 44° 44' west longitude, we bent 
new sails, and made other necessary preparations for 
encountering the weather that was to be expected in a 
nigh latitude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil 
was about 100 leagues. 

On the forenoon of Sunday, the 2d of March, after 
.seeing that every person was clean, divine service was 
performed, according to my usual custom on this day : 
I gave to Mr. Fletcher Christian, whom I had before 
directed to take charge of the third watch, a written 
order to act as lieutenant. 

The change of temperature soon began to be sensi- 
bly felt ; and, that the people might not suffer from their 
own negligence, I supphed them with thicker clothing, 
as better suited to the climate. A great number of 
whales of an immense size, with two spout-holes on 
the back of the head, were seen on the 11th. 

On a complain! made to me by the master, I found it 
necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one of the sea- 
men, with two dozen of lashes, for insolence and muti- 
nous behaviour, which was the first time that there was 
any occasion for punishment on board. 

We were off Cape St. Diego, the eastern part of the 
Terre de Fuego, and the wind being unfavourable, I 
thought it more advisable to go round to the eastward 
of Staten-land than to attempt passing through Straits 
le Maire. We passed New Year's Harbour and C ape St. 
John, and on Monday the 31st were in latitude 60° 1' 
south. But the wind became variable, and we had bad 
weather. 

Storms, attended with a great sea, prevailed until the 
12th of April. The ship began to leak, and required 
pumping every hour, which was no more than we had 
reason to expect from such a continuance of gales of 
wind and high seas. The decks also became so leaky 
that it was necessary to allot the great cabin, of which 
I made little use except in fine weather, to those people 
who had not births to hang their hammocks in, and by 
this means the space between decks was less crowded. 

With all this bad weather, we had the additional mor- 
lif.cation to find, at the' end of every day, that we were 
osing ground; for, notwithstanding our utmost exer- 
tions, and keeping on the most advantageous tacks, we 
<fid little better than drift before the wind. On Tuesday 
{he 22d of April, we had eight down on the sick list, 
and the rest of the people, though in good health, were 
greatly fatigued ; but I saw, with much concern, that it 
was impossible to make a passage this way to the Society 
Islands, for we had now been thirty days in a tempes- 
tuous ocean. Thus the season was too far advanced for 
us to expect better weather to enable us to double Cape 
Horn ; and, from these and other considerations, I or- 
dered the helm to be put a-weather, and bore awav for 
2T 



the Cape of Good Hope, to the great joy of every one 
on board. 

We came to an anchor on Friday the 23d of May, in 
Simon's Bay, at the Cape, after a tolerable run. The 
ship required complete caulking, for she had become so 
leaky, that we were obhged to pump hourly in our pas- 
sage from Cape Horn. The sails and rigging also re- 
quired repair, and, on examining the provisions, a con- 
siderable quantity was found damaged. 

Having remained thirty-eight days at this place, and 
my people having received all the advantage that could 
be derived from refreshments of every khid that could 
be met with, we sailed on the 1st of July. 

A gale of wind blew on the 20th, with a high .sea ; 
it increased after noon with such violence, that the ship 
was driven almost forecastle under before we could get 
the sails clewed up. The lower yards were lowered, 
and the top-gallant-mast got down upon deck, whi^h re- 
lieved her much. We lay-to all night, and in the morn- 
ing bore away under a reefed foresail. The sea still 
running high, in the afternoon it became very unsafe 
to stand on ; we therefore lay-to all night, without any 
accident, excepting that a man at the steerage was thrown 
over the wheel and much bruised. Towards noon the 
violence of the storm abated, and we again bore away 
under the reefed foresail. 

In a few days we passed the island of St. Paul, where 
there is good fresh water, as I was informed by a Dutch 
captain, and also a hot spring, which boils fish as com- 
pletely as if done by a fire. Approaching to Van Die- 
men's land, we had much bad weather, with snow and 
hail, but nothing was seen to indicate our vicinity, on 
the 13th of August, except a seal, which appeared at 
the distance of twenty leagues from it. We anchored 
in Adventure Bay on Wednesday the 20th. 

In our passage hither from the Cape of Good Hope, 
the winds were chiefly from the westward, with very 
boisterous weather. The approach of strong southerly 
winds is announced by many birds of the albatross or 
peterel tribe ; and the abatement of the gale, or a shift 
of wind to the northward, by their keeping away. The 
thermometer also varies five or six degrees in its height, 
when a change of these winds may be expected.. 

In the land surrounding Adventure Bay are many 
forest trees one hundred and fifty feet high ; we saw 
one which measured above thirt^z-three feet in girth. 
We observed several eagles, some beautiful blue-plu- 
maged herons, and parroquets in great variety. 

The natives not appearing, we went in search of them 
towards Cape Frederic-Henry. Soon after, coming to 

grapnel, close to the shore, for it was impossible to 
land, we heard their voices, like the cackling of geese, 
and twenty persons came out of the woods. We threw 
trinkets ashore tied up in parcels, which they would not 
open out until I made an appearance of leaving them : 
they then did so, and, taking the articles cut, put them on 
their heads. On first coming in sight, they made a. 
prodigious clattering in th'ir speech, and held their arms 
over their heads. They spoke so quick, that it was im- 
possible to catch one single word they uttercJ. Then 
colour is of a dull black ; their skin scarifieu aoout the 
breast and shoulders. One was distinguished by hl^* 
body being coloured with red ochre, but all the others 
were painted black, with a kind of soot, so thickly laid 
over their faces and shoulders, that it was difficult io 
ascertain what they were like. 

On Thursday the 4th of September, we sail'^d our ./ 



478 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



AdventiKe Ba>, steering first towards the east-south- 
east and then to the northward of east, when, on the 
19lli, we came in sight of a cluster of small rocky Isl- 
ands, which I named Bounty Isles. Soon afterwards 
we frequently observed the sea, in the night time, to be 
covered by luminous spots, caused by amazing quanti- 
ties of small blubbers, or medusae, which emit a Ught, 
like the blaze of a candle, from the strings or filaments 
extending from them, while the rest of the body con- 
tinues perfectly dark. 

We discovered the island of Otaheite on the 25th, 
and, before casting anchor next morning in Matavai 
Bay, such numbers of canoes had come off, that, after 
the natives ascertained we were friends, they came on 
board, and crowded the deck so much, that in ten min- 
utes I could scarce find my own people. The whole 
distance which the ship had run, in direct and contrary 
courses, from the time of leaving England until reach- 
ing Otaheite, was twenty-seven thousand and eighty- 
six miles, which, on an average, was one hundred and 
eight miles each twenty-four hours. 

Here we lost our surgeon on the 9th of December. 
Of late he had scarcely ever stirred out of the cabin, 
though not apprehended to be in a dangerous state. 
Nevertheless, appearing worse than usual in the even- 
ing, he was removed where he could obtain more air, but 
without any benefit, for he died in an hour afterwards. 
This unfortunate man drank very hard, and was so 
averse to exorcise, that he would never be prevailed on 
to take half a dozen turns on deck at a time, during all 
the course of the voyage. He was buried on shore. 

On Monday, the fifth of January, the small cutter was 
missed, of which I was immediately apprized. The 
ship's company being mustered, we found three men 
absent, who had carried it off. They had taken with 
Ihem eight stand of arms and ammunition ; but with 
regard to their plan, every one on board seemed to be 
quite ignorant. I therefore went on shore, and engaged 
all the chiefs to assist in recovering both the boat and 
the deserters. Accordingly, the former was brought 
back in the course of the day, by five of the natives ; 
but the men were not taken until nearly three weeks 
afterwards. Learning the place where they were, in a 
diiTerent quarter of the island of Otaheite, I went thither 
in the cutter, thinking there would be no great difficulty 
in securing them with the assistance of the natives. 
However, they heard of my arrival ; and when I was 
near a house in which they were, they came out want- 
ing their fire-arms, and delivered themselves up. Some 
of the chiefs had formerly seized and bound these de^ 
serters ; but had been prevailed on, by fair promises of 
returning peaceably to the ship, to release them. But 
finding an opportunity again to get possession of their 
arms, they set the natives at defiance, 

The object of the voyage being now completed, all 
the bread-fruit plants, to the number of one thousand 
and fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday, the 31st of 
March. Besides these, we liad collected many other 
p'dnts, some of them bearing the finest fruits in the 
world ; and valuable, from affording brilliant dyes, and 



circumstances sufficiently proved ; for to ihe friendlj 
and endearing behaviour of these peopls may be as- 
cribed the motives inciting an event that effected tha 
ruin of our expedition, which there was every reason to 
believe would have been attended with the most favour- 
able issue. 

Next morning we got sight of the island Huaheme ; 
and a double canoe soon coming alongside, containing 
ten natives, I saw among them a young man who re- 
collected me, and called me by my name. I had been 
Jiere in the year 1780, with Captain Ccok, in the Res- 
olution. A few days after sailing from this island, the 
eather became squally, and a thick body of black 
clouds collected in the east. A water-spout was in a short 
time seen at no great distance from us, which appeared 
to great advantage from the darkness of the clouds be- 
hind it. As nearly as I could judge, the upper part was 
about two feet in diameter, and the lower about eight 
inches. Scarcely had I made these remarks, when I ob- 
served that it Avas rapidly advancing towards the ship. 
We immediately altered our course, and took in all the 
sails except the foresail ; soon after which it passed 
within ten yards of the stern, with a rustling noise, but 
without our feeling the least effect from its being so 
near. It seemed to be travelling at the rate of about 
ten miles an hour, in the direction of the wind, and it 
dispersed in a quarter of an hour after passing us. It 
is impossible to say what injury we should have re- 
ceived had it passed directly over us. Masts, I imagine, 
might have been carried away, but I do not apprehend 
that it would have endangered the loss of the ship. 

Passing several islands on the way, we anchored at 
Annamooka, on the 23d of April ; and an old lame 
man called Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, and 
immediately recollected, came on board, along with 
others, from different islands in the vicinity. They 
were desirous to see the ship, and, on being taken 
below, where the bread-fruit plants were arranged, 
they testified great surprise. A few of these being 
decayed, we went on shore to procure some in their 
place. 

The natives exhibited numerous marks of the pecu- 
liar mourning which they express on losing their rela- 
tives ; such as bloody temples, their heads being de- 
prived of most of the hair, and, what was worse, al- 
most the whole of them had lost some of their fingers-. 
Several fine boys, not above six years old, had lost botb 
their little fingers ; and several of the men, besides 
these, had parted with the middle finger of the right 
hand. 

The chiefs went off with me to dinner, and we car 
ried on a brisk trade for yams ; we also got plantains 
and bread-fruit. But the yams were in great abundance, 
and very fine and large. One of them weighed above 
forty-five pounds. Saihng canoes came, some of which 
contained not less than ninety passengers. Such a num- 
ber of them gradually arrived from different islands, 
that it was impossible to get any thing done, the mul- 
titude became so great, and there was no chief of suf- 
ficient authority to command the whole. I thermfore 



for various properties besides. At sunset of the 4th of! ordered a watering party, then employed, to come on 
April, we made sail from Otaheite, bidding farewell to i board, and sailed on Sunday, the 26lh of April. 
an isi'and where for twenty-three weeks we had been j We kept near the island of Kotoo all the afternoon 
treated with ..ne utmost affection and regard, and which of Monday, in hopes that some canoes would come off 
sremeH to increase in proportion to our stay. That j to the ship, but in this we were disappointed. The 
we werf! not insensible to their kindness, the succeeding j wind being northerly, we steered to the westward isi the 



THE ISLAND. 



479 



evening, to pass south of Tofoa ; and I gave directions 
for this course to be continued during the night. The 
master had the first watch, the gunner the middle 
watch, and Mr. Christian ^he morning watch. This 
was the turn of duty for the night. 

Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of 
uninterrupted prosperity, and had been attended with 
circumstances equally pleasing and satisfactory. But 
a very different scene was now to be disclosed : a con 
spiracy had been formed, which was to render all our 
past labour productive only of misery and distress ; 
and it had been concerted with so much secrecy and 
circumspection, that no one circumstance escaped to 
betray the impending calamity. 

On the night of Monday, the watch was set as I have 
described. Just before sunrise, on Tuesday morning, 
while I was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, with the master- 
at-arms, gunner's mate, and Thomas Burkitt, seaman, 
came into my cabin, and, sei'iing me, tied my hands 
with a cord behind my back; threatening me with 
instant death if I spoke or made the least noise. I 
nevertheless called out as loud as I could, in hopes of 
assistance ; but the officers not of their party were 
already secured by sentinels at their doors. At my 
own cabin-door were three men, besides the four within: 
all except Christian had muskets and bayonets ; he had 
only a cutlass. I was dragged out of bed, and forced 
on deck in my shirt, suffering great pain in the mean 
time from the tightness with which my hands were 
tied. On demanding the reason of such violence, the 
only answer was abuse for not holding my tongue. The 
master, the gunner, surgeon, master's mate, and Nelson 
the gardener, were kept confined below, and the fore- 
hatchway was guarded by sentinels. The boatswain 
and carpenter, and also the clerk, were allowed to 
co.nie on deck, where they saw me standing abaft the 
mizen-mast, with my hands lied behind my back, unaer 
a guard, with Christian at their head. The boatswain 
was then ordered to hoist out the launch, accompanied 
by a threat, if he did not do it instantly, to take care 

OF HIMSELF. 

The boat being hoisted out, Mr. Hayward and Mr. 
Hallett, two of the midshipmen, and Mr, Samuel, the 
clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the intention 
of giving this order, and endeavoured to persuade the 
people near me not to persist in such acts of violence ; 
but it was to no effect ; for the constant answer was, 
"Hold your tongue, sir, or you are dead this moment." 

The master had by this time sent, requesting that he 
might come on deck, which was permitted ; but he was 
soon ordered back again to his cabin. My exertions 
to turn the tide of affairs were continued ; when Chris- 
tian, changing the cutlass he held for a bayonet, and, 
holding me by the cord about my hands with a strong 
gripe, threatened me with immediate death if I would 
not be quiet; and the villains around me had their 
pieces cocked and bayonets fixed. 

Certain individuals were called on to get into the 
boat, and were hurried ..ver the ship's side ; whence I 
concluded, that along with them I was to be set adrift. 
Another effort to bring about a change produced noth- 
ing but menaces of having my brains blown out. 

The boatswain and those seamen who were to 
be put into the boat, were allowed to collect twine, 
ianvas, linesj sails, cordage, an eight- and-twsnty gal- 



lon cask of water ; and Mr. Samuel got 1 50 pounds of 
bread, with a small quantity of rum and wine ; als<>. a 
quadrant and compass ; but he was prohibited, on pain 
of death, to touch any map or astronomical book, and 
any instrument, or any of my surveys ard drawings. 

The mutineers having thus forced those of the sea- 
men whom they wished to get rid of into the boat. 
Christian directed a dram to be served to each of his 
crew. I then unhappily saw that nothing could be 
done to recover the ship. The officers were next called 
on deck, and forced over the ship's side into the boat, 
while I was kept apart from every one abaft the mizen- 
mast. Christian, armed with a bayonet, held the cord 
fastening my hands, and the guard around me stood 
with their pieces cocked ; but on my daring the un- 
grateful wretches to fire, they uncocked them. Isaac 
Martin, one of them, I saw, had an inchnation to assist 
me ; and as he fed me with shaddock, my hps bemg 
quite parched, we explained each other's sentiments by 
looks. But this was observed, and he was removed. 
He then got into the boat, attempting to leave the ship; 
however, he was compelled to return. Some others 
were also kept contrary to their inclination. 

It appeared to me, that Christian was some time in 
doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or his 
mates. At length he determined for the latter, and the 
carpenter was ordered into the boat. He was permitted, 
though not without opposition, to take his tool-chest. 

Mr. Samuel secured my journals and commission, with 
some important ship-papers; this he did with great reso- 
lution, though strictly watched. He attempted to save 
the time-keeper, and a box with my surveys, drawings, 
and remarks for fifteen years past, which were very 
numerous, when he was hurried away with — " Damn 
your eyes, you are well off to get what you have." 

Much altercation took place among the mutinous crew 
during the transaction of this whole affair. Some swore, 
" I '11 be damned if he does not find his way home, if he 
gets any thing with him," meaning me ; and when the 
carpenter's chest was carrying away, " Damn my eyes, 
he will have a vessel built in a month;" while others ridi- 
culed the helpless situation of the boat, which was very 
deep in the water, and had so little room for those who 
were in her. As for Christian, he seemed as if medi- 
tating destruction on himself and every one else. 

I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at me, 
and said I was well acquainted with the people among 
whom I was going; four cutlasses, however, were thrown 
into the boat, after we were veered astern. 

The officers and men being in the boat, they only 
waited for me, of which the master-at-arms informed 
Christian, who then said, "Come, Captain Bligh, your 
officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go 
with them; if you attempt to make the least resistance, 
you will instantly be put to death;" and without further 
ceremony, I was forced over the side by a tribe of armert 
ruffians, where they untied my hands. Being in the 
boat, we were veered astern by a rope. A few pieces 
of pork were thrown to us, also the fo'ir cutlasses. The 
armorer and carpenter then called out to me to remem 
ber that they had no hand in the transaction. Aftei 
having been kept some time to make sport for these 
unfeeling wretches, and having undergone much ridi 
cule, we were at length cast adrift in the open ocean. 

Eighteen persons were with me in the boat, —th« 



480 



BYRON'S WORKS 



master, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boatswain, 
carpenter, mas.er, and quarter-master's mate, two quar- 
ter-masters, the sail-maker, two cooks, my clerk, the 
butcher, and a boy. There remained on board, Fletcher 
Christian, the master's mate ; Peter Haywood, Edward 
Young, George Stewart, midshipmen ; the master-at- 
arms, gunner's mate, boatswain's mate, gardener, ar- 
morer, carpenter's mate, carpenter's crew, and four- 
teen seamen, being altogether the most able men of the 
ship's company. 

Having little or no wind, we rowed pretty fast towards 
the island of Tofoa, which bore north-east about ten 
leagues distant. The ship while in sight steered west- 
north-west, but this I considered only as a feint, for 
when we were sent away, "Huzza for Otaheite!" was 
frequently heard among the mutineers. 

Christian, the chief of them, was of a respectable 
family in the north of England. This was the third 
voyage he had made with me. Notwithstanding the 
roughness with which I was treated, the remembrance of 
past kindness produced some remorse in him. While 
they were forcing me out of the ship, I asked him whether 
this was a proper return for the many instances he had 
experienced of my friendship ? He appeared disturbed 
at the question, and answered, with much emotion, 
"That — Captain Bligh— that is the thing — I am in 
Jiell — I am in hell." His abilities to take charge of the 
third watch, as I had so divided the ship's company, 
were fully equal to the task. 

Haywood was also of a respectable family in the 
north of England, and a young man of abilities, as well 
as Christian. These two had been objects of my partic- 
ular regard and attention, and I had taken great pains 
to instruct them, having entertained hopes that, as pro 
fessional men, they would have become a credit to their 
country. Young was well recommended ; and Stewart 
of creditable parents in the Orkneys, at which place, on 
the return of the Resolution from the South Seas in 1780, 
we received so many civilities, that in consideration of 
these alone I should gladly have taken him with me 
But he had always borne a good character. 

When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
prevented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few 
hours before, my situation had been peculiarly flatter- 
ing ; I had a ship in the most perfect order, stored with 
every necessary, both for heahh and service ; the object 
©f the voyage was attained, and two-thirds of it now 



completed. The remaining part had every prospei-. Si 
success. 

It will naturally be asked, what could be the cause of 
such a revolt ? In answer, I can or:ly conjecture that the 
mutineers had flattered themselves with the hope of a 
happier life among the Otaheilans than they could pos- 
sibly enjoy in England ; which, joined to some female 
connexions, most probably occasioned the whole trans- 
action. 

The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
cheerful in manners and conversation ; possessed of 
great sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make 
them be admired and beloved. The chiefs were so much 
attached to our people, that they rather encouraged 
their stay among them than otherwise, and even made 
them promises of large possessions. Under these, and 
many other concomitant circumstances, it ought hardly 
to be the subject of surprise that a set of sailors, most 
of them void of connexions, should be led away, where 
they had the power of fixing themselves in the midst 
of plenty, in one of the finest islands in the world, where 
there was no necessity to labour, and where the allure- 
ments of dissipation are beyond any conception that 
can be formed of it. The utmost, however, that a com- 
mander could have expected, was desertions, »uch as 
have already happened more or less in the South Seas, 
and not an act of open mutiny. 

But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses belief. Thir- 
teen of the party who were now with me had always 
lived forward among the seamen ; yet neither they, nor 
the messmates of Christian, Stewart, Haywood, and 
Young, had ever observed any circumstance to excite 
suspicion of what was plotting ; and it is not wonderful 
if I fell a sacrifice to it, my mind being entirely free 
from suspicion. Perhaps, had marines been on board 
a sentinel at my cabin-door might have prevented it ; 
for I constantly slept with the door open, that the officer 
of the watch might have access to me on all occasions. 
If the mutiny had been occasioned by any grievances, 
either real or imaginary, I must have .discovered symp- 
toms of discontent, which would have put me on my 
guard; but it was far otherwise. With Christian, in 
particular, I was on the most friendly terms ; that very 
day he was engaged to have dined with me ; and the 
preceding night he excused himself from supping with 
me on pretence of indisposition, for which I felt con- 
cerned, having no suspicions of his honour or integrity. 



Eiit aue of 2JronK ; 

OR, 

CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 



"Impar Congressus Achilli." 



I. 

The " good c Id times" — all times, wh«n old, an; good- 
Are gone ; the present might be, if they would ; 
Great things has-e been, and are, and greater still 
Want bale of mere mortals but their will : 
A wider space, a greener field is given 
Jo Those who olay their "tricks before high Heaven. 



I know not if the angels weep, but men 

Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again. 

n. 

All IS exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader! remember when chou wert a lad. 
Then Pitt was all : or, if not all, so mud;, 
His verv rival almost deem'd him such. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



4S 



We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
As the deep billows of the ^gean roar 
Betwixt the Hellenic and Phrygian shore. 
But where are they — the rivals ? — a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet. 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave, 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
Which overLSweeps the world. The theme is old 
Of " dust to dust," but half its tale untold. 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form — 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea. 
O'er which from empire she lured Antony ; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at leng'h appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear. 
He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death and birth 
And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
He " wept for worlds to conquer !" he who ne'er 
Conceived the globe he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 

III. 

But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 

Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 

The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 

Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings 

And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 

Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state? 

Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 

Of all t!iat 's great or little, wise or wild? 

Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 

thrones ; 
Whose table, earth — whose dice were humau bones ? 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle. 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things — 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues ! 
A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great, 
Now slave of all could teaze or irritate— 
The paltry jailor and the prying spy. 
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? 
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; 
How low, how little, was this middle state. 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
How u.vf could feel for what he had to bear ! 
T 2 66 



Vain his complaint — my lord presents his bill, 
His food and wine were doled out duly still : 
Vain was his sickness, — never was a crime 
So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause. 
Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 
None standby his low bed — though even the mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind,- - 
Smile — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain, 
And higher worlds than this are his again. 

IV. 
How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign. 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The little that he was and sought to be ! 
W^hat though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
He tasted empire's blessings, and its curse ; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape : 
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave. 
The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 
What though his jailor, duteous to the last. 
Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 
Refusing one poor line along the hd 
To date the birth and death of all it hid. 
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
A talisman to all save him who bore : 
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 
When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies. 
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust. 
And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies 
Do more than niggard Envy still denies. 
But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 
Touch the freed spirit of the fetter'd dust ? 
Small care hath he of v.hat his tomb consists. 
Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists ■ 
Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 
On the rude cavern of the rocky isle. 
As if his ashes found their latest home 
In Rome's Pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome. 
He wants not this ; but France shall feel the wani 
Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 
Her honour, fame, and faith, demand his bones. 
To rear amid a pyramid of thrones ; 
Or carried onward, in the battle's van. 
To form, like Guesclin's' dust, her talisman. 
But be as it is, the time may come 
His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's drum. 

V. 

Oh, Heaven ! of which he wa5 in power a feature , 
Oh, earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 
Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 
That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell! 



1 Guesclin died during the siege of a city • it surrenderea 
and the keys were bioui,'lu ana 'aid upon his bici, » tni\ Uw 
place might appear rendered to nis ashes 



482 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ye Al js, which view'd him in his dawning flights 
Hover the victor of a hundred fights ! 
Thou Rome, who savv'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone ! 
Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon ? 
The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
And shook within her pyramids to hear 
A nev*' Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 
While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell. 
With clashing hosts, who slrew'd the barren sand 
To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 
Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 
Ye race of Frederic! — Frederics but in name 
And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 
Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell, 
First, and but rose to follow ; ye who dwell 
Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt! 
Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 
But left thee as he found thee, still a waste : 
ForgjDttLng all thy still enduring claim, 
Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name ; 
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear 
Tiiat sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear : 
Kosciusko ! on — on — on — the thirst of war 
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar • 
The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets 
Gleam in the sun, but 't is a sun that sets ! 
RIoscow ! thou limit of his long career. 
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 
To see in vain — he saw thee — how ! vi'ith spire 
And palace fuel to one common fire. 
To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 
To this the merchant flung his hoarded store. 
The prince his hall — and Moscow was no more ! 
Subhmest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame ; 
Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
For gasping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 
I Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 

To come, in Avhich all empires shall expire. 
Thou other element ! as strong and stern 
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn. 
Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe. 
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang ! 
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
For ihe gay thousands of his dashing ranks ; 
In vam shall France recall beneath her vines 
Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wines, 
«'r stagnant in their human ice remains 
in frozen mummies on the polar plains. 
In vam will Italy's broad sun awaken 
ITei offspring chill'd — its beams are now forsaken. 
Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
W*iat shall return ? The conqueror's broken Cdst ! 



The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 

The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 

Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory. 

Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 

Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 

Before their sovereign, — sovereign, as be.ore ; 

But there exliausted Fortune quits their field, 

And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 

To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide ; 

And backward to the den of his despair 

The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 

Oh ye ! and each, and all ! oh, France ! who found 

Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, 

Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 

His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 

Look'd down o'er trampled Paris, and thou, isle, 

Which see'st Etruria from thy ramparts smile, 

The momentary shelter of his pride, 

Till, woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride ; 

Oh, France ! retaken by a single march. 

Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 

Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo, 

Which prove how fools may have their fortune toe. 

Won, half by blunder, half by treachery ; 

Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy jailor nigh — 

Hear ! hear ! Prometheus^ from his rock appeal 

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year ; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long. 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd ; 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven j 

The reed of fortune and of thrones the rod, 

Of fame the Moloch or the demi-god ; 

His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their decent dignity of fall. 

Yet vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought. 

By pointing out on history's fruitless page. 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven. 

Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 

Freedorn and peace to that which boasts his birth ' 

While Washington 's a watch-wora, <5uch as ne'ei 

Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air : 

While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 

Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 

Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 

Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave, — 

The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave. 

Who burst the chains of millions to renew 

The very fetters which his arm broke through. 

And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own 

To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

VI. 

But 't will not be— the spark 's awaken'd— lo ! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 



1 I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in 
^schylus, when he is left alone by his attendants, and befo. 
the arrival of the Chorus of Sea-nymphs. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



483 



The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 

Through eight long ages of alternate gore, 

Revives — and where ? in that avenging clime 

Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 

Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 

The infant world redeems her name of "iVeiu." 

'T is the old aspiration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh. 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 

Where Greece was — No ! she still is Greece once more. 

One common cause makes myriads of one breast ! 

Slaves of the east, or Helots of the west ; 

On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, 

The self-same standard streams o'er either world : 

The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ; 

The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek ; 

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each Cacique; 

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar : 

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance. 

Sweep lightly by the half-tamed land of France, 

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 

Break o'er the jEgean, mindful of the day 

Of Salamis — there, there the waves arise. 

Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories. 

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 

By Christians unto whom they gave theii- creed, 

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle. 

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. 

The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 

These, these shall teil the tale, and Greece can show 

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 

But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 

Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 

How should the autocrat of bondage be 

The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 

Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 

Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan; 

Better still toil for masters, than await. 

The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 

Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 

A live estate, existmg but for thrall, 

Lotted by thousands as a meet reward 

For the first courtier in the czar's regard ; 

While their immediate owner never tastes 

His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 

Better succumb even to their own despair, 

And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 

vn. 

But not alone within the hoariest clime, 

Where freedom dates her birth with that of time ; 

And not alone where plunged in night, a crowd 

Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud. 

The dawn revives ; renown'd, romantic Spain 

Holds back the invader from her soil again. 

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde. 

Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword; 

Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 

Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 

Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 



That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage, 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence thev sprung 

But these are gone — their faith, their swords, tneir swa} 

Yet left more anti-christian foes than they : 

The bigot monarch and the butcher priest. 

The inquisition, with her burning feast. 

The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel. 

While sat the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel. 

Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 

That fiery festival of agony ! 

The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 

By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth ; 

The long-degenerate noble ; the debased 

Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced 

But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 

The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 

The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 

The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 

The foreign wealth that flow'd on every shore. 

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore ; 

The very language, which might vie with Rome's, 

And once was known to nations like their homes, 

Neglected or forgotten :-^such was Spain ; 

But such she is not, nor shall be again. 

These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 

The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 

Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 

The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 

Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 

Revive the cry—" lago ! and close Spam !'" 

Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 

And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 

The exterminating war ; the desert plain ; 

The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 

The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop 

Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop 

For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 

Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 

The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 

Waving her more than Amazonian blade ; 

The knife of Arragon^^ Toledo's steel ; 

The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 

The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 

The Andalusian courser in the van ; 

The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid 5 

And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 

And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, Franeo 

vin. 

But lo ! a congress ! What, that liallow'd name 
Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the same 
For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes. 
The prophets of young freedom, summon'd far 
From climes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas • 

1 "St. lago ! and close Spain !" the old Spanish war cry 

2 The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use a* 
this weapon, and displayed it particularly in {oin,.^i Fresco 
wars. 



4^4 



BYRON'S WORKS 



And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 

Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 

And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 

To b'd m blush for these old chains, or break. 

But loho compose this senate of the few 

Thai sh luld redeem the many ? JVho renew 

This cottsecrated name, till now assign'd 

To councils held to benefit mankind ? 

Who now assemble at the holy call ? — 

The bless'd alliance which says three are all! 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of Heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 

A pious unity ! in purpose one, 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 

Cared little, so that they were duly fed: 

But these, more hungry, must have something more — 

The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 

Ah, how much happier were good ^sop's frogs 

Than we ! for ours are animated logs. 

With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 

And crushing nations with a stupid blow, 

All dully anxious to leave little work 

Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice bless'd Verona ! since the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 

Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 

The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ;" 

Thy ScaUgers — for what was " Dog the Great," 

" Can' Grande" (w^hich I venture to translate) 

To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 

And Dante's exile, shelter'd by thy gate ; 

Thy good old man,' whose world was all within 

Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : 

Would that the royal guests it girds about 

Were so far like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame. 

To tell oppression that the world is tame ! 

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage — 

The comedy is not upon the stage ; 

The show is rich in ribbonry and stars — 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 

Clasp thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free ! 



Resplend'^nt sight ! behold the coxcomb czar, 

The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 

As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 

And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit. 

And generous spirit when 'tis not frost-bit; 

Now half-dissolving to a liberal thaw. 

But harden'd back whene'er the morning 's raw ; 

'\ith no objection to true liberty, 

Kxcept tnat it would make the nations free. 

Hew well the imperial dandy prates of peace, 

flc'W fair,, i*" Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece! 



1 The famous old ma<i of Verona. 



How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 

Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 

How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 

^Vith all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ; 

How royally show off in proud Madrid 

His goodly person, from the south long hid, — 

A Nessing cheaply purchased, the world kno^^s, 

By naving jNIuscovites for friends or foes. 

Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! 

La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 

And that which Scythia was to him of yore, 

Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 

Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 

Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth : 

Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 

Many an old woman, but no Catherine.' 

Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 

The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 

Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 

Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 

To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes 

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 

Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 

To infest the clime, whose skies and laws are pure. 

With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago : 

And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 

Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 

I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 

Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun , 

But were I not Diogenes, I 'd wander 

Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 

Be slaves Avho will, the Cynic shall be free; 

His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 

Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 

The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 

XI. 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of ne plus ultra Ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries? and her noisy Chambers, 
And tribune which each orator first clambers. 
Before he finds a voice, and, when 'tis found, 
Hears " the lie" echo for his answer round ? 
Our British Commons sometimes deign to hear ; 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate. 
Must fight next day, his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs httle to trub Franks, who had rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot, 
To hstening long and interrupting not ? 
Though this w-as not the method of old Rome, 
When TuUy fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction. 
In saying eloquence meant " Action, action !" 

XII. 
But where 's the monarch? hath he dined ? or yet 
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 



1 The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (calleij tht. 
Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulairiis ok 
the banks of the river Pruth. 



THE AGE OE BRONZE. 



48j 



Have revolutionary pates risen, 

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 

Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? 

Or have no movements foliow'd traitorous soups ? 

Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 

Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded 

Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 

I read all 's treason in her cooks ! 

Good classic ! is it, canst thou say, 

Desirable to be the " ?" 

Why wouldst thou leave calm 's green abode, 

Apician table and Horatian ode, 

To rule a people who will not be ruled, 

And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? 

Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 

For thrones — the table sees thee better placed : 

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best. 

To be a kind host and as good a guest. 

To talk of letters, and to know by heart 

One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art ; 

A scholar always, now and then a wit, 

And gentle when digestion may permit — 

But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 

The gout was martyrdom enough for thee ! 

xiii. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 

From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 

" Arts — arms — and George — and glory and the isles — 

And happy Britain — wealth and freedom's smiles — 

White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 

Contented subjects, all aUke tax-proof— 

Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, 

That nose, the hook where he suspends the world !' 

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quUl 't other day — 
And " pilots who have weather'd every storm, — 
(But no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform)." 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
JMethinks we need not sing them any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near. 
There 's no occasion you should find them here. 
Yet something may remain, perchance, to chime 
With reason, and, what 's stranger still, with rhyme ; 
Even this thy genius. Canning ! may permit, 
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, 
And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 
Our last, our best, our only orator, 
Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more, 
Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. — 
The hounds «ill gather- to their huntsman's hollo. 
And, where he leads, the duteous pack will follow : 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry. 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithfal far than the four-footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
\or royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 

1 "Naso suspendit adunco." — florace. 
The Roman app ies it to one who merely was imperioua to 
nis acquaintance 



The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 

xrv. 

Alas ! the country ! — how shall tongue or pen 

Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ? 

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease. 

The first to make a malady of peace. 

For what were all these country patriots born ? 

To hunt and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 

But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall — 

Kinijs, conquerors, and markets most of all. 

A.. 1 must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 

Vv ny would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? 

He w^as your great Triptolemus ; his vices 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your pricps ; 

He amplified, to every lord's content, 

The grand agrarian alchymy — high rent. 

Why did the Tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 

And lower v.heat to such desponding quai-ters? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 

The man was worth much more upon his throne. 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly w-ere spilt. 

But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 

But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 

And acres told upon the appointed day. 

But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 

The purse-proud tenant never known to fail ? 

The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 

The marsh reclaimed to most improving land ? 

The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 

The doubling rental ? What an evil 's peace ! 

In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 

In vain the commons pass their patriot bill • 

The landed interest — (you may understand 

The phrase much better leaving out the lancTj 

The land's self-interest groans from shore to jshore 

For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 

Up ! up again : ye rents, exalt your notes. 

Or else the ministry will lose their votes. 

And patriotism, so delicately nice, 

Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 

For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 

Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry ; 

And nought remains of all the millions sper.t, 

Excepting to grow moderate and content. 

They who are not so had their turn — and tura 

About still flows from fortune's equal urn ; 

Now let their virtue be its own reward. 

And share the blessings wliich themselves prjf .cd. 

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm. 

Farmers of war, dictators of the farm I 

Their ploughshare was the sword in hirelirg {"^aias, 

T'heir fields manured by gore of othrr lands ; 

Safe m then- barns, these Sabine tillers sent 

Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 

Year after year they voted cent, per cent. 

Blood, sweat, and tear- wrung milhons — why? for rem 

They roar'd, tliey dined, they di-ank, they sw^ore the* 

meant 
To die for England — why then live ? for rent ! 
The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ' 
Their love of country, millions all mispenu 



486 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



How reconcile? — by recc-iciling rent. 

A.nd will they not repay the treasures lent ? 

No: down with every thing, and up with rent! 

Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 

Beins, end, aim, religion — Rent, rent, rent ! 

Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess : 

Thou shouldst have gotten more or eaten less : 

Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 

Are idle ; Israel says the bargam stands. 

Such, landlords, was your appetite for war. 

And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 

What, would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash? 

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 

So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 

And found on 'Change a foundling hospital ! 

Lo, mother church, while ail religion writhes, 

Like Niobc, weeps o'er her offspring, tithes ; 

The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 

And proud pluralities subside to one ; 

Chur:h, state, and faction, ^^Testle in the dark, 

Toss'd bv the delude in their common ark. 

Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 

Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 

And whv ? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 

And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 

" Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ;" 

Admire their patience through each sacrifice. 

Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride. 

The price of taxes and of homicide ; 

Admire their justice, which would fain deny 

The debt of nations : pray, who made it high ? 

XV. 

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks. 

The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 

Where Midas might again his wish behold 

In real paper or imagined gold. 

That magic pa' ace of Alcina shows 

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 

Were all her atoms of unleavened ore, 

And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 

There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake, 

And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 

How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines, 

Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or wines ; 

No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey. 

Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 

But let us not to own the truth refuse, 

TVas ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 

'I'hose parted with their teeth to good King John, 

And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your ovm ; 

All states, aU things, all sovereigns, they control. 

And waft a loan "from Indus to the Pole." 

The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed 

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 

Nor tnese alone ; Columbia feels no less 

Fresh speculations follow each success ; 

And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 

Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. 

Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march — 

'T -.» gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 

Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 

In every realm their scripture-promised land : 

Two Jews keep do^vn the Romans, and uphold 

The accursed Hun, more brutal man of old : 



Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
What is the happiness of earth to them ? 
A congress forms their " Now Jerusalem," 
Where baronies and orders both invite — 
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
But honour them as portion of the show — 
(W^here now, oh. Pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks ? 
Or has it ceased to "kick against the pricks?") 
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh. 
To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." 

XVI. 
Strange sight this congress ! destined to imite 
All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 
I speak not of the sovereigns — they 're alike, 
A common coin as ever mint could strike : 
But those w'ho sway the puppets, pull the strings. 
Have more of motley than their heayj' kings. 
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine. 
While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite. 
Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 
There Chateaubriand forms new books of martjrs ;' 
j And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 
I There ISIontmorency, the sworn foe to charters, 
I Turns a diplomatist of great eclat. 
To furnish articles for the "Debats ;" 
I Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
As his dismissal in the "Moniteur." 
Alas ! how could his cabinet thus eir .< 
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? 
He falls indeed, — perhaps to rise again, 
"Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." 

XVII. 

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 

The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 

The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 

The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 

The mother of the hero's hope, the boy. 

The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 

The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 

That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen: 

She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour, 

The theme of pity, and the MTCck of power. 

Oh, cruel mockery ! could not Austria spare 

A daughter ? What did France's widow there ? 

Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave — 

Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 

But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 

Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 

The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 

Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 

What though she share no more, and shared in vain, 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

\^^lich swept from Moscow to the Southern seas. 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese. 



1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the autho; 
in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona 

from a literary sovereijrn: "Ah ! Monsieur C , are you 

related to that Chateaubriand who — who — who has wrift««j 
something (ecrit qutlque chose)?" It is sf.id that the Autlwy, 
of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy. 



— 

THE VISIOX OF JUDG3IEXT. 487 


tVTiere Parma vie^vs the traveller resort 




To note the trappinjs of her miinic coiirt. 


xvm. 


"But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 


But, tired of foreign foUies, I turn home. 


Of all her beams — while nations gaze and moiim — 


And sketch the group— the picture 's yet to come. 


Ere yet her husband's ashes hare had time 


3Iy Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 


To chill in their inhospitable clime. 


She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! 


(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold — 


While throng'd the Chiefs of every Highland clan 


But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould) ; 


To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 


She comes I — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 


Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar. 


Nor Homer's) ; lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 


While all the Conmaon Coimcil cry, " Claymore !" 


Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 


To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 


Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre tlirough, 


Gird the gross sirloin of a City Cell, 


Is ofFer'd and accepted! Could a slave 


She burst into a laughter so extreme. 


Do more ? or less ?— and he in his new grave ! 


That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 


Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 




And the £'<2>empress grows as Ex a wife ! 




So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 


Here, reader, will we pause :— if there 's no harm in 


Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? 


This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second " CaiTnet!.' 


Cfve 'S^iuimx t 


\t Sutrsmrnt. 


BY QUE\T]DC 


) REDIVIVUS. 


SUGGESTED BY THE CO^IPOSITIOX SO EXTT 


TLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLER. 


A Daniel come to judgi 


ment I yea, a Daniel ! 


I thank thee, Jew, for t 


caching me that word. 


I. 

Saixt Peter sat by the celestial gate, 


IV. 

His business so augmented of late years. 


His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull. 


That he was forced, against his will, no doubt. 


So Uttle trouble had been given of late ; 


(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers). 


Not that the place by any means was fuU, 


For some resource to turn himself about. 


But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight," 


And claim the help cf his celestial peers, 


The devils had taken a longer, stronger pull, 


To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 


And " a pull altogether," as they say 


By the increased demand for his rem.arks : 


At sea — which drew most souls another way. 


Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks 


n. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 


V. 

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven ; 


And hoarse \vith having Uttle else to do. 


And yet they had even then enough to do, 


Exceptins to wind up the sun and moon. 


So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 


Or curb a runaway young star or two, 


So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 


Or wild colt of a com.et, which too soon 


Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven, 


Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 


Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 


Splitting some planet with its plavful tail. 


They threw their pens down in divine disgust— 


As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 


The page was so besmear'd with blood and dusi 


m. 


VI. 


The guarihan seraphs had retired on hi^rh. 


This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 


Finding their charges past all care below ; 


What angels shrink from: even uie ver\- de^ii 


Terrestrial business fiU'd nought in the sky 


On this occasion his own work abhorr'd. 


Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 


So surfeited with the infernal revel : 


Who foimd, indeed, the facts to multiply 


Though he himself had sharpen'd every 3won1 


With such rapidity of vice and woe. 


It almost quench'd his innate thirst of eviL 


That he had stripped off both his wings in quills. 


(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion 


And vet was :n arrear of human His. 


'T is, that he has both generals in reversion). 



88 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VII. 

Let 's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease, 
With nothing but new names inscribed upon't j 

"T will one day finish : meantime they increase, 

" With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front. 

Like Saint John's foretold beasts ; but ours are born 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIII. 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn 

Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun : 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died — but left his subjects still behind. 

One half as mad — and t' other no less blind. 

IX. 

He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 

His burial made some pomp : there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion ; 
For these things may be bought at their true worth : 

Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X. 

Fonn'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall j 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 



XI. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Vii( ail his spices but prolong decay. 

xn. 

He 'b uead — and upper earth with him has done ; 

He 's buried ; save the undertakers bill, 
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 

For him, imless he left a German will ; 
Bui where 's the proctor who will ask his son ? 

In whom his qualities are reigning still, 
E>:cept that household virtue, most uncommon. 
Of constancy to a bad ugly woman. 

XIII. 

•* Gf d save the king !" It is a large economy 
111 God to save the like ; but if he will 

Be >aving, all the better ; for not one am I 
Oi those who think damnation better still: 

I h.irdly know too if not quite alone am I 
In tins small hope of bettering future ill 

By i;irrumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
riif oif-rmtv of hell's hot jurisdiction. 



XIV. 
I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'T is blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are cranimM 
With the best doctrines tiU we quite o'erfiow ; 

I know that all save England's church have shamni*&. 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damii'd bad purchasi;. 

XV. 
God help us all ! God help me, too ! I am, 

God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 
And not a whit more difficult to damn 

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 

Not that I 'm fit for such a noble dish 
As one day will be that immortal fry 
Of almost every body born to die. 

XVI. 
Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 

And nodded o'er his keys : when lo ! there came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great. 

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim ; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
Said, "There's another star gone out, I think '" 

XVII. 
But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 
At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose j 

" Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise !" 
Weaving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 

An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes : 
To which the saint replied, " Well, what 's the matter? 
Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?" 

XVIII. 
" No," quoth the cherub ; " George the Third is dead." 

" And who is George the Third ?" replied the apostle; 
" What George ? what Third ?" " The Kin.cr of Eng- 
land," said 

The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
Him on his v/ay ; but does he w^ear his head ? 

Because the last we saw here had a tussle, 
And ne'er would have got into Heaven's good graces, 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 
" He was, if I remember, king of : 

That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 

A claim to those of martyrs — like my own ; 
If I had had m.y sword, as I had once 

When I cut ears off", I had cut him down ; 
But having but my keys^ and not m.y brand, 
I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX. 
" And then he set up such a headless howl, 

That all the saints came out and took him in ; 
And there he sits by Sahit Paul, cheek by jowl ; 

That fellow, Paul— the parvenu ! The skin 
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cow! 

In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin 
So as to make a martyr, never sped 
Better than did this weak and wooden head. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



48J' 



XXI. 

"• But had it come up here uoon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell : 

The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell, 

And so this very foolish head Heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 

XXII. 

The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout ; 

The king who comes has head and all entire, 
And never knew much what it was about — 

He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. 
And will be judged hke all the rest, no doubt : ' 

My business and your own is not to inquire 
Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 
Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 
While thus they spake, the angelic caravan. 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind. 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man 

With an old soul, and both extremely blind. 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 
But, bringing up the rear of this bright host, 

A spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach wiin frequent wrecks is paved ; 
His brow was lilce the deep when tempest-tost ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 
As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate, - 

Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin. 
With such a glance of supernatural hate. 

As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 
He potter'd with his keys at a great rate. 

And sweated through his apostolic skin ; 
Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled altogether, 

Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every feather, 
And form'd a circle, like Orion's belt. 

Around their poor old charge, who scarce knew whither 
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes (for, by many stories. 

And true, we learn the angels all are Tories). 

XXVII. 

As 'hings were in this posture, the gate flew 
Asunder, and tne flashing of its hinges 

Flung over s^ ace an universal hue 

Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges 

Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
Auro-a boreahs spread its fringes 

O'er the? North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound, 

By Captain Parry's crews, in "Melville's Sound." 
2U 67 



XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 

A beautiful and mighty thing of light. 
Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 

Victorious from some world-o'erthrovving fight : 
My poor comparison must needs be teeming 

With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 
'T was the archangel Michael : all men kr.ow 

The make of angels and archangels, since 
There 's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 

From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 
There also are some altar-pieces, though 

I really can't say that they much evince 
One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 
But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 

XXX. 
Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal pass'd — he stood ; 

Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary 
(I say youngs begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a Uttle sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saint bow'd down before 

That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angeUcal, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill ; 

Such was their power, thai neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe ; but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In either's eye, as if 't were less their will 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their "Champ Clos" the spheie*. 

XXXIII. 

But here they were in neutral space : we know 

From Job, that Sathan hath the power to pay 
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 

And that " the sons of God," hke those of cla>. 
Must keep him company ; and we might show, 

From the same book, in how poHte a way 
The dialogue is held between the powers 
Of good and evil — but 't would take up hours. 

XXXIV. 
And this is not a theologic trp"*^. 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 
If Job be allegory or a fact. 

But a true narrative ; and thus 1 pick 
From out the \vhole but such and such an ac! 

As sets aside the shghtest thought of trirk. 
'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion. 
And accurate as any other vision. 



XXXV. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 

The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholflb is 

The place where death's grand cause is argued o'er. 
And souls despatched to that world or to this ; 

And therefore 3Iichael and the other w ore 
A civil aspect : though thev did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

rhere pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The archangel bow'd, not like a modem beau. 

But with a graceful oriental bend, 
Pressms one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
He tum'd as to an equal, not too low, 

But kindlv ; Sathan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

xxxvn. 

He merely ber diabolic brow 

An instant ; and then, raising it, he stood 

In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 

Cause why King George by no means could or should 

Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
Eternal, more than other kings endued 

With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions. 

Who long have " paved hell with their good intentions." 

xxxvni. 

Michati began : " What wouldst thou with this man, 
Now dead, and brought before the Lord 1 What ill 

Hath he wrought since his mortal race began, 
That thou canst claim him ? Speak ! and do thy wiE, 

If it be just : if in this earthly span 
He hath been greatly failing to fiilfil 

His duties as a king and mortal, say. 

And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 

XXXIX. 

" Michael!" replied the prince of air, " even here. 

Before the gate of Him thou servest, must 
J Ci€iiin my subject ; and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust. 
So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
Were of his weaknesses ! yet on the throne 
life reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 
»» Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was 

Once, mare thy Master s : but I triumph not 
In this poor planet's conouest, nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 
With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 

Li worship round him, he may have forgot 
Yon weak creation of such paltry things ; 
l think few worth damnation save their kings, 
XLI. 
And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
I such an inclination, 't were (as you 

Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad. 
That hell has nothing better left to do 

Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 
And evil be their own internal curse, 
Ui*a«eo < annol make them better, nor I worse. 



XLII. 

** Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 
When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor womi 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign. 
The world and he both wore a different form. 

And much of earth and all the watery plain 

Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 

His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 

For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

xxm. 

" He came to his sceptre, young ; he leaves it, oii 
Look to the state in which he found his realm. 

And left it ; and his annals, too, behold, 
How to a minion first he gave the hehn ; 

How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 

The meanest hearts ; and, for the rest, but glaiH^ 

Thine eye along America and France ! 

XLIV. 

" 'T is true, he was a tool from first to last 
(I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 

So let him be consumed ! From out the past 
Of ages, since mankiad have known the rale 

Of monarchs — ^from the bloody rolls amass'd 
Of sin and slaughter — from the Cesar's school. 

Take the worst pupil, and produce a reign 

More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slam. 

XLV. 

" He ever warrM with freedom and the free : 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes. 
So that they utter d the word ' Liberty !' 

Found George the Third their first opponent. )r»'hos€ 
History was ever stain'd as his will be 

With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 

XLVI. 
" I know he was a constant consort : own 

He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 

As temperance, if at Apicius' board. 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 

I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
And this was well for him, but not for those 
trilli ons who found him what oppression chose. 

XLvn. 

The new world shook him off ; the old yet groans 

Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 

To all his vices, v>ithout what begot 
Compassion for him — his tame virtues : drewaes 
! Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
A lesson which shall be re- taught them, wake 
1 Up>on the tin-one cf earth ; but let them quake ! 

I xLvm. 

1 " Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
I The faith which makes ye great on eartn, implore;: 
I A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
I Freedom to worship — not alone your J^ord, 
j Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter ! Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to Catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation- 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



4!n 



xux. 

' True ! he aliow'd them to pray God ; but, as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Wliich would have placed them upon the same base 
With those who did not hold the samts in awe." 

But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw : 

Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelf, 

WMe I am guard, may 1 be damn'd myself ! 

L. 

" Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure !" 
" Saint !" replied Sathan, "you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made j'our satellites endure ; 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I '11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil ! 

Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Sathan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgcir's level : 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say ?" — "No !" — "If you please, 
I 'U trouble you to call your witnesses." 

LH. 

Then Sathan tum'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off than we can understand, 
Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off the artillery, which ]Milton mention? 

As one of Sathan's most subhme inventions. 

Lin. 

This was a signal unto such danm'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of heU assign'd ; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range fi-eely — being danm'd the same. 

LIV. 

They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins ; or like to an " entree" 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry • 

I borrow my comparisons fi-om clay. 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell, — 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
How much time it takes up, even to a second. 

For every ray that travels to dispel 
The fo^ of London ; through which, dimly bfacoo'd, 

rhe weathercocks are gilt, some thrice a year. 

If that me summer is not too severe: — 



LYI. 

I say that I can tell — 't was half a minute ; 

I know the solar beams take up more time 
Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 

But then their telegraph is less sublime. 
And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Sathan's couriers bcand for their own clime 
The sun takes up some years for every ray 
To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVTI. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 
Of half-a-crown, a Uttle speck appear'd 

(I 've seen a something like it in the skies 
In the ^gean, ere a squall) : it near'd. 

And, ffrowinsr bigger, took another guise ; 
Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and ?teer'd 

Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar 

Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer ■— 

LYIII. 

But take your choice) ; and then it grew a cloud. 

And so it wels — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heaven saw these ; 
They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wiid-geese 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose.'' 

LIX. 

Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John BiiU, 
Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : 

There Paddy brogued "by Jasus!" "What'syovwjli?' 
The temperate Scot exclaim'd: the French gho»^ eiwo! < 

In certain terms I sha'nt translate in full, 

As the first coachman will ; and 'midst the w^. 

The voice of Jonathan wels heard to express, 

" Our President is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and L e . 

In short an universal shoal of shades 
From Otaheite's Isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and trade 
Readv to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
AU summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
Try if kings may n't be damn'd hke me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
As angels can ; next, like Italian twihght, 

He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail, 

Or simset streaming through a Gothic skyhgni 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night. 

Or a fi-esh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

Lxn. 

Then he address'd himself to Sathan : " Why 
Mv good old friend, for such I deem you. thougf 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistedte you for ^versonal foe ; 

Our difference is political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below. 

You know my great respect for you ; and tins 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss—- 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIII. 

" Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
iMy call for witnesses ? I did not mean 

That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
'T is even superfluous, since two honest, clean 

True testimonies are enough : we lose 
Our time, nay, our eternity, between 

The accusation and defence : if we 

Hear both, 't will stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Sathan replied, " To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 

I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone through 

Already ; and I merely argued his 

Late Majesty of Britain's case •\vith you 

0';» N^ a point of form : you may dispose 

C jn J I 've kings enough below, God knows!" 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the demon (late call'd " multi-faced" 
By multo-scribbUng Southey). " Then we '11 call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so graced 
As to speak first ? there 's choice enough — who shal 

h be ?" Then Sathan answer'd, "There are many; 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVL 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious looking sprite 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 
All the costumes since Adam's right or ^vrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat. 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVIL 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 

Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends of all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds ; 
So let 's to business : why this general call ? 

If those are freeholders I see in slirouds. 
And 't is for an election that they bawl. 

Behold a candidate with unturn'd-coat! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ?" 

LXVIII. 

" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake : these things 

Are of a former hfe, and what we do 
Above is more august : to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met ; so now you know." 
" Then I presume those gentlemen w-ith wings," 

Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that soul below 
Looks much like G eorge the Third ; but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ?" 

LXIX. 
•' lie IS what you behold him, and his doom 

Depends upon his deeds," the angel said. 
" If you have aught to arraign ui him, the tomb 

Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 
To lift Itself against the loftiest."—" Some," 

Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead, 
P'oi such a liberty — and I, for one, 
Hav^ told them what I thought beneath the sun." 



LXX. 

'■^Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 

To urge against him," said the archangel. " Whj 

Rephed the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 

With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

LXXI. 

" FooUsh, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To see him pimish'd here for their excess. 

Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

Their place below ; for me, I have forgiven, 

And vote his ' habeas corpus' into heaven." 

LXXII. 

" Wilkes," said the devil, " I imderstand all this ; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
He won't be sovereign more : you 've lost your laboa» 
For at the- best he will but be your neighbour. 

LXXIII. 

" However, I knew what to think of it, 
When I beheld you, in your jesting way, 

Fhtting and whispering round about the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 

That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 

I 'II have him gagged — 't was one of his own bills. 

LXXIV. 

" Call Junius !" From the crowd a shadow stalk' c. 

And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd, 

As we shall see) and jostled hands and Imees, 
Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder. 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXV. 

The shadow came ! a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 

That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour. 

But nought to mark its breeding or its birth : 
Now it \vax'd httle, tlien again grew bigger, 

With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to what none could say. 

LXXVI. 
The more mtently the ghosts gazed, the less 

Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 
The devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 

They varied like a dream — now here, now there 
And several people swore from out the press. 

They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
He was his father ; upon which another 
Was svire he was his mother's cousin's brother : 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



493 



LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; but the wight 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increased ; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself— he was so volatile and thin ! 

LXXVIII. 

The moment that you had pronounced him one^ 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was another ; 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 
It varied, till I don't think his own mother 

(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to t' other, 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolary " iron mask." 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
♦' Three gentlemen at once " (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might deem 
That he was not even one ; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight— like fogs on London days : 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 

And ceites often Uke Sir Philip Francis. 

LXXX. 

I 've an hypothesis — 't is quite my owti j 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne. 

And injuring some minister or peer 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown ; 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'T is, that what Junius we are wont to call. 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

1 don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books we see 
Are fiU'd as well without the latter too ; 

And really, till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due. 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

»♦ And who and what art thou ?" the archangel said. 

" For that, you may consult my title-page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 

" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now." — " Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further ?" Junius answer'd, " You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter. 

LXXXIII. 

" My charges upon record will outlast 

The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

" Repeni'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past 
Exaggeration? something which may doom 

Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 
Too bitter — is it not so ? in tiy gloom 

Of passion ?" " Passion !" cried the phantom dim, 

" I loved my country, and I hated him. 
2 u 2 



LXXXIV. 

" What I have written, I have written : let 

The rest be on his head or mine !" So spoke 
Old "nominis umbra ;" and, while speaking yet. 

Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
Then Sathan said to Michael, " Don't forget 

To call George Washington, and John Home Tookc, 
And Franklin :" — but at this time there was heard 
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 
At length, with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to that post. 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 

His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 

"What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis no» a 
ghost!" 
" I know it," quoth the incubus: ; " but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI. 
" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 

My left wing, he 's so heavy ; one would think 
Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 

But to the point: while hovering o'er the brink 
Of Skiddaw (where, as usual, it still rain'd), 

I saw a taper far below me wink. 
And, stooping, caught this fellow at a hbel — 
No less on history than the holy bible. 

LXXXVII. 
" The former is the devil's scripture, and 

The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there. 
And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 

I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

LXXXVIII. 
Here Sathan said, " I know this man of old. 

And have expected him for some time here ; 
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. 

Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear ! 
We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 
With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 
" But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done.'' 

" Done !" cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 
The very business you are now upon. 

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prateis 7" 
" Let 's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has to say , 
You know we 're bound to that in every way !" 

XC. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, whicft 
By no means often was his case below, 

Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitcti 
His voice into that awful note of woe 

To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow ; 

But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 

Not one of all whose gouty feet would stjr. 



494 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCI. 

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
And INIichael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friend ! 'twere 

best — 
Non di, non homines, — ' you know the rest." 

XCII. 

A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 

The angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service ; and the generation 

Uf ghosts had heard too much in Ufe, not long 
Before, to profit by a new occasion ; 

The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd " What ! what ! 

Pye come again ? No more — no more of that !" 

XCIII. 

The tumult grew, an universal cough 

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
When Castlcreagh has been up long enough 

(Befov-e he was first minister of state, 
I mean — the slaves hear now), some cried " off, off," 

As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate. 
The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

XCIV. 
The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave. 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony, " de se." 

xcv. 

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 

With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice. 

Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 
And now the bard could j)lead his own bad cause. 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

XCVI. 
He said — (I only give the heads) — he said. 

He meant no harm in scribbling ; 't was his way 
L'pon all topics ; 't was, besides, his bread. 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 't would delay 
I'.^n brig the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 

And take up rather more time than a day, 
To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
Wtxc Tyler — rhymes on Blenheim — Waterloo. 

xcvn. 

t?c had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever; 
He had \\ntten for republics, far and wide, 

Anr\ ih<in aga'uist them, bitterer than ever ; 
F'or panti:;ocracy he once had cried 

Aloi'il, a scheme less moral than 't was clever ; 
Ttion grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had *urn'vi li'^s poat — and would ha e turn'd his skin. 



xcvm. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 

Reviewing' " the ungentle craft," and then 
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 

Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd . 

He had written much blank verse, and blanker pros< 

And more of both than any body knows. 

XCIX. 

He hgd written Wesley's life: — here, turning round 
To Sathan, " Sir, I 'm ready to write yours, 

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 

With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser ; and there 's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 

So let me have the proper documents, 

That I may add you to my other saints." 

C. 

Sathan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you. 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet ; by the way, my own 
Has more brass in it, and is as well blown. 

CL 

" But talking about trumpets, here 's my Vision ! 

Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you snail 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall ! 
I settle all these things by intuition. 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 
Like King Alfonso ! ^ When I thus see double, 
I save the deity some worlds of trouble." 

CII. 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 

Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
He read the first three lines of the contents ; 

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
Had vanish'd with variety of scents. 

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang. 

Like lightning, off from his " melodious twang. "^ 

cm. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 

The angels stopp'd their ears, and plied their pinions: 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions 
(For 't is not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to his opinions) ; 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, — he could not blow ! 



1 See " Life of H. KirKe White." 

2 King Alfonzo. speakiner of the Ptolomean system, saia, 
that "had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he 
would have spared the Maker some absurdities." 

3 See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disap- 
peared *' with a curious perfume and a meb.lloas twarifr;' 
or see the Antiquary, vol. 1. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



496 



CIV. 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 

For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 
And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down ; 

Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 
hio his lake, for there he did not drown, 

A different web being by the destinies 
Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er 
Reform shall happen either here or there. 

CV. 
H'i first sunk to the bottom — like his works. 

But soon rose to the surface — like himself: 
For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks,' 

By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 

1 A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; it then 
floats, as most people know. 



Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 
In his own den, to scrawl some " Life" or " Vision," 
As Welborn says — "the devil turn'd precisian." 

CVI. 

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion. 
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown : 

All I saw further in the last confusion, 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one . 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundredth psalm, 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF PULCI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando In- 
namorato the honour of having formed and suggested 
the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of 
Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives 
cf chivairy, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his con- 
tinuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, 
has avoided the one, and Berni, in his reformation of 
Boiardo's poem, has corrected the other. Pulci may be 
considered as the precursor and model of Berni al- 
together, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however 
inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder 
of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in Eng- 
land. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. 
The serious poems onRcncesvalles in the same language, 
and more particularly the excellent one of Mr. Merivale, 
are to be traced to the same source. It has never yet 
been decided entirely, whether Pulci's intention was or 
was not to deride the religion, which is one of his fa- 
vourite topics. It appears to me, that such an intention 
would have been no less hazardous to the poet than to 
the priest, particularly in that age and country ; and 
the permission to publish the poem, and its reception 
among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was 
nor is so interpreted. That he intended to ridicule 
the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play 
with the simple dulness of his converted giant, seems 
evident enough ; but surely it were as unjust to accuse 
him of irreligion on this account, as to denounce Fielding 
for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, Supple, 
and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, — or Scott, for the 
exquisite use of his Covenanters in the "Tales of my 
Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the liberty 
of the original with the proper names ; as Pulci uses 
Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or 
Carlomano; Rondel, or Rondello, etc. as it suits his 
ronvenience, so has the translator. In other respects 



the version is faithful to the best of the translator's 
ability in combining his interpretation of the one lan- 
guage with the not very easy task of reducing it to 
the same versification in the other. The reader is re- 
quested to remember that the antiquated language of 
Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality of 
Italians themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan 
proverbs ; and he may therefore be more indulgent to 
the present attempt. How far the translator has suc- 
ceeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
are questions which the public will decide. He was 
induced to make the experiment partly by his love for 
and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, oi 
which it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and 
with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner tc 
become accurately conversant. The Italian language 
is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to 
all, her favours to few, and sometimes least to those who 
have courted her longest. The translator wished also 
to present in an English dress a part at least of a poem 
never yet rendered into a northern language : at the 
same time that it has been the original of some of the 
most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, 
as well as of those recent experiments in poetry in 
England which have been already mentioned. 



MORGANTE MAGGIOUE 



CANTO I. 

I. 

In the begmnmg was the Word next God j 

God was the Word, the Word no less was he , 

This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and without him nought could be 

Therefore, just Lord! from out thy hiah abodR. 
Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 

One only, to be my companion, who 

Shall help my famous, worthy, old song througlj 



49C 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



II. 



And tnou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride, 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside, 
The day thy Gabriel said, "All hail !" to thee, 

Since to thy servants pity's ne'er denied. 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 

Be to my verses then benignly kind. 

And to the end illuminate my mind. 

III. 

'1 was in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 

Deplores the ancient woes which both befell. 
And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the hand 

Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 

His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow ; 

IV. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey. 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind. 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly — and wrote worse. 

V. 

Leonardo Aretino said already. 

That if, hke Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady. 

No hero would in history look brighter ; 
He in the cabinet being always ready. 

And in the field a most victorious fighter. 
Who for the Church and Christiaji faith had wrought, 
Certes far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may see at Saint Liberatore, 

The abbey no great way from Manopell, 
Erected m the Abruzzi to his glory. 

Because of the great battle in which fell 
A pagan king, according to the story. 

And felon people whom Charles sent to hell: 
And there are bones so many, and so many, 
Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 

VII. 
But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 

His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 
l-lorence, by his great bounty don't arise, 

And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 
All proper customs and true courtesies: 

Whate'er thou hast acauired from then till now, 
V\ ith knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 
Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

VIII. 
1 welve paladins had Charles, in court, of whom 

The wirest and most famous was Orlando ; 
^im traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 

In Pioncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too, 
Whrle the honi rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 

Of their saa rout, though he did all knight can do, 
And Dante m his comedy has given 
To him a haioy seat with Charles in heaven. 



IX. 

'T was Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 

In festival and in triumphant sport. 

The much renov;n'd Saint Dennis being the cause 

Angiolin of Bayonne, and O fiver, 

And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 

X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salemone, 

Walter of Lion's Mount, and Baldovin, 
Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 

Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
The son of Pepin: — when his knights came hither, 
He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 

But watchful fortune lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 

While Charles reposed him thus m word and deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing; 

Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 

To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king, 

One day he openly began to say, 

" Orlando must wa always then obey ? 

XII. 

" A thousand times I 'vc been about to say, 

Orlando too presumptuously goes on; 
Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway. 

Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
Each have to honour thee and to obey ; 

But he has too much credit near the throne, 
Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
By such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIII. 

" And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
To let him know he was a gallant knight, 

And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
But I know xvho that day had won the fight 

If it had not for good Gherardo been : 

The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 

He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 

XIV. 

" If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 

When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christian cause had suffered shamefully. 
Had not his valour driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there 's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor ! that all complain : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which I cross'd with two and sixty counts. 

XV. 

" 'T is fit thy grandeur should dispense relief. 
So that each here may have his proper part. 

For the whole court is more or less in grief: 

Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heait ?" 

Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 

Displeased he was whh Gan because he said it. 

But muchmc 2 still that Charles should giveh 'n trudif. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



49' 



XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 
But Ohver thrust in between the pair, 

And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
And thus at length they separated were. 

Orlando, angry too wi^h Carloman, 
Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 

Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 

And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 

XVII. 

From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 

And on towards Brara pnck'd him o'er the plain ; 
And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 

Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again: 
Orlando, in whose brain all was not well. 

As " Welcome my Orlando home," she said, 

Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

xvm. 

Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 

kVhich Aldabella thought extremely strange, 
But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 

knd his spouse took his bridle on this change. 
And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 

9f every thing which pass'd without demur, 

And then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place. 
And far as Pagan countries roam'd astray, 

A.nd while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remembcr'd by the way ; 

And wanderiag on in error a long space. 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

Rlidst glens obscure, and distant lands he found. 

Which form'd the Christian's and the Pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Angrante : under cover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants look'd him over ! 

One Passamont was foremost of the brood. 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 

In daily jeopardy the place below. 

XXL 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more. 

Nor leave their cells for water or for wood. 
Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 

Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 
Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 

Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood. 
And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 
How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 
Said the aboot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 

We give you freely, since that you believe 
With us in Mary Mother's son divine ; 

And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
The cause of our delay to let you in 

To be rusticity, you shall receive 
The reason why our gate was barr'd to you ; 
Thus those who in suspicion Uve must do. 
68 



XXIII. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 

These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 
As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 

They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 
From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 

'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 
But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guartl 
Against domestic beasts with watch and wardc 

XXIV. 
" These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch, 

For late there have appear'd three gianty rough ; 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
When force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — we are not enough : i 
And these so much our orisons deranae, 
I know not what to do till matters change. 

XXV. 
" Our ancient fathers hving the desert in, 

For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain 

That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 
But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd douTi fui 
bread, 
From off yon mountain daily raining faster. 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI. 
" The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 

Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 
And flings them, our community to bury. 

And all that I can do but m-re provokes." 
While thus they parley in the cemetery, 

A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 
Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came tumbling over, 
So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XX vn. 

'' For God's sake, cavalier, come in with speed, 
The manna 's falling now," the abbot cried : 

" This fellow does not wish my horse should feed. 
Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied ; 

" Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good-will and aim applied.'- 

The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 

They 'II one day fling the mountain, I behcve." 

xxvm. 

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 

And also made a breakfast of his own : 
"Abbot," he said, "I want to find that fellow 

Who flung at my good horse yon coj-ncr-stone." 
Said the abbot, " Let not my advice stem shallo^v, 

As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 

would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 
" That Passamont has in his hand three dorts- 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you m-.tsi 
You know that giants have much stouter hearts- 

Than us, with reason, in proportion just • 
If go you will, guard well against their arts. 

For these are very barbarous and robust,'' 
Orlando answer'd, " This I '11 see, be sure. 
And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 



198 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you with God's benison and mine ;" 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont; 
Who, seeing nim alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant. 

Then asked him, "If he wish'd to stay as servant?" 

XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease ; 

But, said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
Vou with his monks so oft have broke the peace — 

Vile dog ! 't is past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
When he received an answer so injurious. 

XXXII. 

And being return'd to where Orlando stood. 

Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging ; 

£. roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
And head, and set both head and helmet rmging. 

So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 

But more than dead, he seem'd so stupified. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thougnt him slain outright, 

Said, " I will go, and, while he lies along. 
Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?" 

But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long. 
Especially Orlando, such a knight. 

As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 
And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 
To the right about — without wings thou 'rt too slov? 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
'T was but by treachery thou laid'st mo low." 

The giant his astonishment betray'd. 
And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on, 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 

XXXV. 
Orlando had Cortana bare in hand. 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed — 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
Vet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd. 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 
^aying, " What grace to me thou 'st given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord, am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
All Ihings by thee are measured just and even ; 

Crur power without thine aid would nought be found : 
I pray tnee take heed of me, till I can 
A» least rcivirn once more to Carloman." 



XXXVII. 

And having said thus much, he went his way ; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a oanK a rocK or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, lOud 'gan say, 

" How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ? 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIIl. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large. 
That if it had in fact fulfiU'd its mission. 

And Roland not avail'd him of his targe. 
There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to charge. 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell ; but, o'erthrown, bo 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode. 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 
And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode. 

And shut himself at night within his birth. 
Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 

The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth, 
The door to open, like a crazy thing. 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him. 

And Mahomet he call'd, but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him ; 

But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from aU the fears which rack'd him ; 

And to the gate he came with great regret — 
"Who knocks here ?" grumbling all the while, said he 
" That," said Orlando, " you will quickly see." 

XLI. 
" I come to preach to you, as to your brothers. 

Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ; 
For Providence divine, in you and others. 

Condemns the evil done by new acquaintance. 
'T is writ on high — your wrong must pay another's; 

From heaven itself is issued out this sentence j 
Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 

XLII. 
Morgante said, " O gentle cavalier ! 

Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
The favour of your name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, *' So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

XLIII. 
The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

" I have had an extraordinary vision ; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone. 

And Macon would not pity rny condition ; 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition ; 
His timely succour set me safe and free. 
And I a Christian am disposed to be." 



MORGANTE 


MAGGIORE. 499 


XLIV. 


LI. 


Crlando answer'd, "Baron just and pious, 


" And here our doctors are of one accord. 


If th)s good vnsh your heart can really move 


Commg on this point to the same conclusion — 


To the true God, who will not then deny us 


That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the L-jn? 


Eternal honour, you will go above. 


If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 


And, if you please, as friends we wUl ally us, 


For their unfortunate relations stored 


And I will love you with a perfect love. 


In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 


Your idols are vain liars full of fraud. 


Their happiness would be reduced to nought. 


The only true God is the Christian's God. 


And thus imjust the Almighty's self be thought. 


XLV. 


LII. 


" The Lord descended to the virgin breast 


" But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 


Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 


Which seems to him, to them too must appear 


If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 


Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall ; 


Without whom neither sun or star can shine. 


He never can in any purpose err : 


Abjure Lad Macon's false and felon test. 


If sire or mother suffer endless thrall, 


Your renegado God, and worship mine, — 


They don't disturb themselves for him or her ; 


Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 


What pleases God to them must joy inspire ; — 


To which INIorgante answer'd, "I'm content." 


Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 


XLVI. 


LHl. 


And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 


" A word imto the wise," Morgante said. 


And made much of his convert, as he cried. 


" Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 


- To the abbey I will gladly marshal you :" 


How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 


To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied ; 


And if the will of God seem good to me. 


** I to the friars have for peace to sue." 


Just, as you tell me, 't is in heaven obey'd — 


Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 


Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be ! 


Saying, " My brother, so devout and good. 


I will cut off the hands from both their trunks 


Ask the abbot pardon, as I \\ash you would : 


And carry them unto the holy monks. 


XLVII. 


LIV. 


" Since God has granted your illumination. 


" So that all persons may be sure and certam 


Accepting you in mercy for his own. 


That they are dead, and have no further feai 


HumiUty should be your first oblation." 


To wander solitary this desert in, 


Morgante said, " For goodness' sake make known — 


And that they may perceive my spirit clear 


Since that your God is to be mine— your station, 


By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtaia 


And let your name in verity be shown ; 


Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 


Then will I every thing at your command do." 


He cut his brethren's hands off at these words. 


On which the other said, he was Orlando. 


And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 


XLVIII. 


LV. 


" Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu, 


Then to the abbey they went on together. 


A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 


Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 


Oft, perfect baron 1 have I heard of you 


The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran thitftcr 


Through all the different period of my days : 


To their superior, all in breathless rout, 


And, as I said, to be your vassal too 


Saying, with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 


I wish, for your great gallantry always." 


You wish to have this person in or out ?" 


Thus reasoning, they continued much to say. 


The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 


And onwards to the abbey went their way. 


Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 


XLIX. 


LVI. 


And by the way, about the giants dead 


Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 


Orlando with Morgante reason'd : " Be, 


Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 


For their decease, I pray you, comforted. 


He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 


And since it is God's pleasure, pardon me ; 


And hath renounced his Macon false;" which hein 


A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred, 


Morgante with ihe hands corroborated. 


And our true scripture soundeth openly — 


A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear : 


Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 


Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 


Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 


Saying, "Thou hast contented me, oh Lord !" 


L. 


LVII. 


« Because his love of justice unto all 


He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated. 


Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 


And more than once contemplated his size , 


All who have sin, however great or small; 


And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated. 


But good he well remembers to restore : 


Baiow, that no more my wonder will arise, 


Nor without justice holy could we call 


How you could tear and fling the trees you late elm. 


Him, whom I now require you to adore : 


When I behold your form with my own eyes. 


All men must make his will their \vishes sway, 


You now a true and perfect friend will show 


And quickly and spontaneously obey. 


Yourself to Christ, as once you were a fo^-. 



500 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LVIII. 

" And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 

Till one day by the Spirit being inflamed, 

'Why dost thou persecute me thus?' said Christ; 

And then from his offence he was reclaim'd. 
And went for ever after preaching Christ ; 

And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

*' So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 

He who repents, — thus writes the Evangelist, — 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you '11 exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before !" 

LX. 

And thus great honour to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 

And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose. 

The abbot show'd a chamber where array'd 
Much armour was, and hung up certain bows ; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he beUeved, to him. 

LXL 

There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
" Morgante, I could wish you in this case 

To go for water." " You shall be obey'd 
In all commands" was the reply, "straightway." 

Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 
And went out on his way unto a fountain. 
Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 

LXIL 
Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 

Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 
Wliereat from out his quiver he prepares 

An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 

And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 
And to the fountain's brink precisely pours, 
So that the giant's join'd by all the boars. 

LXIIL 
Morgante at a venture shot an arrow. 

Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear. 
And pass'd unto the other side quite through. 

So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 
Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 

Against the giant rush'd in fierce career. 
And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 
Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 
Pi'rcei\nng that the pig was on him close. 

Fie gave him s>uch a punch upon the head ' 
As floor'd him, so that he no more arose — 

Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 
St'Xt to tne other. Having seen such blows, 

'I/ie other pigs along the valley fled ; 
Morgante on his neck the bucket took, 
Pull from tlie spring which neither swerved nor shook. 



LXV^. 

The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
Nor spilt one drop of watjr in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 

With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 

Marveli'd to see his strength so very great ; — 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork j 

All animals are glad at sight of food : 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood. 
That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork; 

Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 

For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 

And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honour great, 

A few days after this convivial scene. 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse well train'd. 
Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 

LXVIIl. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led. 
To gallop, and to put him to the proof. 

Thinking that he a back of iron had. 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead. 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur !" 

And still continued pricking with the spur. 

LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount. 

And said, " I am as light as any feather. 
And he has burst — to this what say you, count ?" 

Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 
You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 

Let him go ; fortune wills that we together 
Should march, but you on foot, Morgante, still." 
To which the giant answer'd, " So I will. 

LXX. 
" When there shall be occasion, you shall see 

How I approve my courage in the fight." 
Orlando said, " I really think you '11 be, 

If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight. 
Nor will you napping there discover me • 

But never mind your horse, though out of sigh^ 
'T were best to carry him into some wood. 
If but the means or way I understood." 

LXXI. 
The giant said, " Then carry him I will. 

Since that to carry me he was so slack — 
To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 

But lend a hand to place him on my back." 
Orlando answer'd, " L' my counsel sti'' 

May weigh, Morgante, do not ui.dertake 
To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 
As you have done to him, will do to fov i 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 50^ 




LXXII. 


LXXIX. 


«' Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 


"We can indeed but honour you with masses, 




As Nessus did of old beyond all cure ; 


And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters, 




I don't know if the fact you 've heard or read, 


Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places 




But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 


In verity much rather than the cloisters); 




" But help him on my back," Morgante said, 


But such a love for you my heart embraces. 




" And you shall see what weight I can endure : 


For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 




In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 


That wheresoe'er you go, I too shall be. 




With all the bells, I 'd carry yonder belfry." 


And, on the other part, you rest with me. 




LXXIII. 


LXXX. 




The abbot said, " The steeple may do well. 


" This may involve a seeming contradiction, 




But, for the bells, you 've broken them, I wot." 


But you, I know, are sage, and feel, and taste, 




Morgante answer'd, "Let them pay in hell 


And understand my speech with full conviction. 




The penalty, who lie dead in yon grot:" 


For your just pious deeds may you be graced 




And hoisting up the horse from where he fell. 


With the Lord's great reward and benediction, 




He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 


By whom you were directed to this waste : 




Orlando, in the legs— or if I have force ;"— 


To his high mercy is our freedom due, 




And then he made two gambols with the horse. 


For which we render thanks to him and you. 




LXXIV. 


LXXXI. 




Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 


" You saved at once our fife and soul : such fear 




So if he did this, 't is no prodigy ; 


The giants caused us, that the way was lost 




But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 


By which we could pursue a fit career 




Because he was one of his family ; 


In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 




And, fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 


And your departure breeds such sorrow here. 




Once more he bade him lay his burthen by : 


That comfortless we all are to our cost ; 




" Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 


But months and years you could not stay in sloth, 




Morgante said, " I '11 carry him for certain." 


Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth ; 




LXXV. 


LXXXII. 




He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 


" But to bear arms and wield the lance ; indeed, 




And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 


With these as much is done as with this cowl. 




Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ; 


In proof of which the scripture you may read. 




Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 


This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 




The abbot by the hand he took one day, 


By your compassion ; now in peace proceed. 




And said with great respect, he had agreed 


Your state and name I seek not to unroll. 




To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 


But, if I 'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 




He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 


That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 




LXXVT. 


LXXXIII. 




The honours they continued to receive 


"If you want armour or aught else, go in, 




Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd : 


Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choosfl ; 




He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 


And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 




The lost days of time past, which may be blamed ; 


Orlando answer'd, " If there should lie loose 




Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 


Some armour, ere our journey we begin. 




Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 


Which might be turn'd to my companion's use. 




And know not how to show my sentiment. 


The gift would be acceptable to me." 




So much I see you with our stay content. 


The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 




Lxxvn. 


T, XXXIV. 




" But in my heart I bear through every clime. 


And in a certain closet, v,'here the wall 




The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 


Was cover'd with old armour like a crust, 




So much I love you in so short a time ; 


The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 




For me, from heaven reward you with all good, 


Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 




The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime! 


The whole, which, save one cuirass, v/as too small. 




Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood ; 


And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 




Meanwhile we stand expectant of your blessing, 


They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly. 




And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 


Which ne'er had suited others so compactly. 




LXXVHL 


LXXXV. 




Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 


'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 




His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 


By the great Milo of Argante fell 




Such fervour in his bosom bred each word ; 


Before the abbey many years ago. 




And, " Cavaher," he said, "if I have less 


The story on the wall was tigured well j 




Courteous and kind to your great worth appeared. 


In the last moment of the abbey's foe, 




Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 


Who long had waged a war implacable • 




C luiow I 've done too little in this case ; 


Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him. 




Put blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 


And there was Milo as he overthrew hinw 




2Y 







502 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXVI. 

Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 
In his own heart " Oh God ! who in the sky 

Know'st all things, how was Milo hither led, 
Who caused the giant in this place to die?" 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 

From evil keep you, the high King of Glory ! 



Note 1. Page 500, line 57. 
He gave him such a punch upon the head. 
" Gli dette in sulla testa un gran punzone." It is 
strange that Pulci should have litcraliy anticipated the 
technical terms of my old friend and master, Jackson, 
and the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. 
"-4 punch on the head,'''' or, "a punch in the head^^' 
" un punzone in sulla testa," is the exact and frequent 
phrase of our best pugilists, who little dream that they 
are talking the purest Tuscan. 



212Falt?; 



AN APOSTROPHIC H73VIN. 



Qualis in EurotcE ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana chores. VIRGIL. 

Such on Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight. 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads. 
DRYDEN'S \aRGIL. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 



Sir, 
I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. I 
•night have been a parliament-man for a certain bo- 
rough, having had the offer of as many votes as 
General T. at the general election in 181'2, Rut I 
<ifa.s all for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen -h f-.sro, 
on a visit to London, I married a middle-ag-- naid 
of hoiiOur. We lived happily at Hornem Bail til! 
last season, when my wife and I were invited by the 
GountessofWaltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) 
fo pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and 
our girls being come to a marriageable (or as they call 
it, marketable) age, and having besides a chancery suit 
inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came 
up in our old chariot, of which, by the by, my wife 
grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was 
obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I 
might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, 
but never see the inside — that place being reserved 
for the Konou'-able Augustus Tiptoe, her partner- 
general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of 
Mrs. H.'s dancing (she v;as famous for birth-night min- 
uets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, 
and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see 
f. country dance, or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all 
the old paces to the newest tunes. But, judge of my 
surprise, en arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem 
with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar- 
looking gentleman I never set eyes on before ; and his, 
'A say trutn, rather more than half round her waist, 
'urning ifHind, and round, and rouna, o a d d see- 



saw up and down sort of tune, that reminded me of 
the "black joke," only more '■'■ affettuoso,'''' till it mad« 
me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By 
and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would 
sit or fall down : — but, no ; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his 
shoulder, '■'' quam familiariter^''^ (as Terence said when 
I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then 
at it again, hke two cock-chafers spitted on the same 
bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a 
loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a 
name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, 
though her mother would call her after the Princess 
of Swappenbach ) , said, " Lord, Mr. Hornem, can't you 
see they are valtzlng," or waltzing (I forget which) ; and 
then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away 
they went, and round-abouted it till supper-tune. Now 
that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so 
does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and four 
times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid in practising the 
preliminary steps in the morning). Indeed, so much do 
I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed 
in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the 
victories (but till lately I have had httle practice in that 
way), I sat down, and with the aid of W. F. Esq., and 
a few hints from Dr. B. (whose recitations I attend, and 
am monstrous fond of Master B.'s manner of delivering 
his father's late successful D. L. address), I composed 
the following hymn, wherewithal to make my senti« 
ments known to the public, whom, nevCitheless, 1 
heartily despise as well as the critics. 

am, Sir, yours, etc., etc. 

HOR/CE HORNEM. 



WALTZ. 



503 



WALTZ. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet I-' whose charms 

Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 

Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 

Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 

[lenceforih in all the bronze of brightness shine, 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

Par be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 

Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly. 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 

Dance forth — sans armour thou shalt take the field, 

And own — impregnable to most assaults, 

Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz," 

Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar. 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war — 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots, 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
On Hounslow's heath t-o rival Wellesley's '* fame, 
Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his aim: 
Hail, moving muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To " energize the object I pursue," 
And give both BeUal and his dance their due ! — 

Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine 
(Famed for the gi-owth of pedigrees and wiiie), 
Long be thine import from all duty free, 
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee ; 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our Uving stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe. 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below ; 
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 

And only left us thy d d debts and dances ; 

Of subsidies and Hanover bereft. 

We bless thee still— for George the Third is left ! 

Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 

For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 

To Germany, and highnesses serene. 

Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 

To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 

So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 

Who paid for vulgar, wiih her royal blood. 

Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 

Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 

A dozen dukes — some kings — a queen — and Waltz. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet. 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's "fiat;" 
Back to my theme — O Muse of motion ! say, 
How first to Albion found thv Waltz her way ? 



Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales, 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had maih) 
Ere yet unlucky fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with hes ; 
While unburnt Moscow * yet had news to send. 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
She came — Waltz came — and with her certain seta 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news- - 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs. 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to insure a wind ; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and to back it, 
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
Dehghtful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate. 
The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand. 
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
His grand pas-seul excited some remark , 
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; 
Not soft Herodias, when with winning tread 
Her nimble feet danced off another's head ; 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck, 
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 
To you — ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
To you of nine years less — Avho only bear 
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear. 
With added ornaments around them roll'd. 
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match ! 
To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — 
Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords ; 
To you — ye single gentlemen ; who seek 
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ■ 
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide. 
To gahi your own, or snatch another's bride ; 
To one and all the lovely stranger came. 
And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz — to thy more melting tune 
Bow, Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon ; 
Scotch reels, avaunl ! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe ; 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands. 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray "put out the light,'' 
Methinks the glare of yondei chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this rewar? 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark !" 
But here the muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 



501 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Observant travellers ! of every time ; 
Ve quartos ! publish'd upon every clirne ; 
O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas'' — tantalizing group — 
Coluinbia"'s caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamtschatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne? 
Ah, no ! from INIorier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 

Shades of those belles, whose reign began of yore. 
With George the Third's — and ended long before — 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host: 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake ; 
No stiff starch'd stays make meddhng fingers ache ; 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage," women in their shape); 
No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " "Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore; 
Werter — to decent vice though much inclined, 
yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blmd — 
Though gentle GenUs, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens. 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce 
And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
And rh^^me finds partner rhyme in praise of "Waltz." 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut ; 

The court, the R ^t, like herself, were new f 

New face for friends, for foes some new rewards. 
New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (most new") to follow those that fled ; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less. 
Though Jenky wonders at his outi success ; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well. 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
New mistresses — no — old — and yet 't is true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
Each nev/, quite new — (except some ancient tricks '°), 
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new 

sticks ! 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, 
Nr.w troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 
S-j saith the muse — my — ", what say you ? 
Sucli was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
Her new preferments m this novel reign ; 
S<ich was the time, r.or ever yet was such. 
Hoops are no more, and petticoats not muck ; 
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 
And l/^.ll-talc powder — all have had their days. 



The ball begins — the honours of the house 

First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 

Some potentate — or royal or serene — 

With K — t's gay grace, or sapient G — st — r's mien, 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

INIight once have been mistaken for a blush. 

From v.'here the garb just leaves the bosom free. 

That spot where hearts '^ were once supposed to be ; 

Round all the confines of the yielded waist. 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal : 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand. 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow in their rank. 

The Earl of— Asterisk — and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir — such a one-^with those of fashion's host. 

For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post ;" 

(Or if for that impartial print too late. 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my dat3*— 

Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow, 

The genial contact gently undergo ; 

Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 

If "nothing follows all this palming work ?"'3 

True, honest JNIirza — you may trust my rhyme — 

Something does follow at a fitter time ; 

The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 

In private may resist him if it can. 

O ye ! v.ho loved our grandmothers of yore, 
F-tz — t — k, Sh-r-d-n, and many more ! 
And thou, my prince, whose sovereign taste and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ; 

Thou, ghost of Q ! whose judging sprite 

Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss — 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
Flush in the cheek and languish in the eyes ; 
Rush to the heart and lighten through the frame. 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame ; 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
Hlio, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
Who wisely wish the charms 3^ou view to reap^ 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
Round the slight waist ; or down the glowing side , 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form. 
From this lewd grasp, and lawless contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign, 
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret • 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint. 
Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 



WALTZ. 



505 



Voluptuous Wallz ! and dare I thus blaspheme ? 

Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 

Terpsichore forgive ! — at every ball 

My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall ; 

My son (or stop — 't is needless to inquire — 

1 hese little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 

Some ages hence our genealogic tree 

Will wear as green a bough for him as me), 

Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 

Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 502, hne 4. 
State of the poll (last day) 5. 

Note 2. Page 502, line 6. 
My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have 
forgotten what he never remembered ; but I bought 
my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three 
shilling bank token, after much haggling for the exen 
sucpence. I grudgea tne money to a Papist, being all 
for the memory of Perceval, and "No Popery;" and 
quite regretting the downfall of the Pope, because we 
can't burn him any more. 

Note 3. Page 503, line 1. 
" Glance their many-twinkling feet." — Gray. 
Note 4. Page 503, hne 21. 
To rival Lord W.'s, or his nephew's, as the reader 
pleases: — the one gained a pretty woman, whom he 
deserved, by fighting for ; and the other has been fight- 
ing in the Peninsula many a long day, " by Shrewsbury 
clock," without gaining any thing in that country but 
the title of " the Great Lord," and " the Lord," which 
savours of profanation, having been hitherto appUed 
only to that Being, to whom " 2e Deums''' for carnage 
are the rankest blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the 
general will one day return to his Sabine farm, there 
" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Mmost as Quickly as he conquer'd Spain I" 

The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a 
summer; we do more — we contrive both to conquer 
and lose them in a shorter season. If the " great Lord's" 
Cincinnatian progress in agriculture be no speedier 
than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, 
it \vill, according to the farmer's proverb, be " plough- 
ing with dogs." 

By the by — one of this illustrious person's new titles 
is forgotten — it is, however, worth remembering — '■'■Sal- 
vador del mundo .'" credite., posferi / If this be the 
appellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula 
to the name of a man who has not yet saved them — 
query — are they worth saving even in this world? for, 
according to the mildest modifications of any Christian 
creed, those three words make the odds much against 
them in the next. — " Saviour of the world," quotha! — 
it were to be wished that he, or any one else, could save 
a corner of it — his country. Yet this stupid misnomer, 
although it shows the near connexion between super- 
stition and impiety, so far has its use, thg.t it proves 
there can be Uttle to dread from those Catholics (in- 
quisitorial Catholics too'* who can confer such an ap- 
pellation on a Protestant. 1 suppose next year he will 
be entitled the "Virgin Mary :" if so, Lord George Gor- 
2v3 69 



don himself would have nothing to object to such liberal 
bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 

Note 5. Page 503, line 7. 
The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be 
sufficiently commended — nor subscribed for. Amongst 
other details omitted in the various despatches of oui 
eloquent ambassador, he did not state (being too much 
occupied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swim- 
ming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impas- 
sable), that one entire province perished by famine in 
the most melancholy manner, as follows : — In General 
Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, the consump- 
tion of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market 
was inadequate to the demand : and thus one hundred 
and thirty-three thousand persons were stan'edto death, 
by being reduced lo wholesome diet ! The lamplighters 
of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a-piece, 
and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a 
quantity of best m.oulds (four to the pound) to the re- 
lief of the surviving Scythians — the scarcity will soon, 
by such exertions, and a proper attention to the quality 
rather than the quantity of provision, be totally alle- 
viated. It is said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine 
has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal 
to our suffering manufacturers. 

Note 6. Page 504, line 5. 
Dancing girls — who do for hire what Waltz doth 
gratis. 

Note 7. Page 504, line 20. 
It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Bans- 
siere's time, of the " Sieur de la Croix," that there be 
" no whiskers ;" but how far these are indications of 
valour in the field, or elsewhere, may still be question- 
able. Much may be and hath been avouched on both 
sides. In the olden time philosop/iers had whiskers 
and soldiers none — Scipio himself was shaven — Han- 
nibal thought his one eye handsome enough without 
a beard; but Adrian, the Emperor, wore a beard 
(ha\ang warts on his chin, which neither the Empress 
Sabina, nor even the courtiers, could abide) — Turerme 
had whiskers, Marlborough none — Buonaparte is un- 

whiskered, the R whiskered ; " argaP'' greatness of 

mind and whiskers may or may not go together : but 
certainly the different occurrences, since the growth of 
the last-mentioned, go further in behalf of whiskers 
than the anathema of Anselm did against long hair !n 
the reign of Henry I. 

Formerly, red was a favourite colour. See Lodowicis 
Barrey's comedy of Itiam Alley, 1661, act I. scene 1. 

" Taffeta. Now, for a wager — What colour'd beard 
comes next by the window ? 

" Adriana. A black man's, I think. 
" Taffeta. I think not so : I think a red, tor that is 
most in fashion.'' 

There is "nothing new under the sun;" but red^ 
then a favourite.^ has now subsided into a favourite^* 
colour. 

Note 8. Page 504, line 40. 
An anachronism — Waltz, and the battle of Austenitz 
are before said to have opened the ball together : tne 
bard means (if he means any thing) Waltz was not so 

much in vogue till the R 1 attained the acme o*' 

his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the 
new government, illuminated heaven and earth, m lU 



506 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



their glory, much about the same time ; of these the 
comet only has disappeared ; the other three continue 
to astonish us still. — Printer's Devil. 

Note 9. Page 504, line 44. 
Amongst others a new ninepence — a creditable coin 
now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest 
calculation. 

Note 10. Page 504, Une 51. 

" Oh that right should thus overcome might /" Who 
does not remember the " delicate mvestigation" in the 
" Merry Wives of Windsor?" 

" Ford. Pray you come near : if I suspect without 
cause, why then make sport at me ; then let me be 
your jest; I deserve it. How now? whither bear you 
this? 

" Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear 
II ? — you were best meddle with buck-washing." 

Note 11. Page 504, line 56. 
The gentle, or ferocious reader, may fill up the blank 
as he pleases — there are several dissyllabic names at his 



service (being akeady in the R t's) : it would not be 

fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, 
as every month will add to the hst now entered for the 
sweepstakes — a distinguished consonant is said to be 
the favourite, much against the wishes of the knowing 
ones. 

Note 12. Page 504, line 74. 

" We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor, 
" 't is all gone — Asmodeus know? where. After all, it 
is of no great importance how women's hearts are dis- 
posed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them 
as absurdly as possible. Bui there are also some men 
with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those 
phenomena often mentioned in natural history ; viz. a 
mass of solid stone — only to be opened by force — and 
when divided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, 
and with the reputation of being venomous." 
Note 13. Page 504, line 94. 

In Turkey, a pertinent — here, an impertinent and 
superfluous question — literally put, as in the text, by 
a Persian to Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera. — Vide 
Morier''s Travels. 



mit ILumtnt of ^uf$m. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



At Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original 
MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor 
Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto ; 
and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house of 
the latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for 
posterity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell 
where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna 
attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the 
monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect en me. 
There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the 
wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is 
much decayed and depopulated ; the castle still exists en- 
tire ; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were 
beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



t..uSG years ! — It tries the thrillmg frame to bear 

And eagle-spirit of a child of song — 

liong years of outrage, calumny and wrong ; 

Imputed madness, prison'd solitude. 

And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 

When the impatient thirst of hght and air 

Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate. 

Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade. 

Works tlirough the throbbing eye-ball to the brain 

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 

And bare, at once, cantivity display'd 

Stanas scoffing tnrougn the never-open'd gate, 

^Vfiif^h nothing through its bars adniits, save day 



And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 

Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 

And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 

Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 

Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 

All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 

For I have battled with mine agony. 

And made me wings wherewith to overfly 

The narrow circus of my dungeon wall. 

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 

And revell'd among men and things divine, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honour of the sacred war for him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven. 

For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and hmb. 

That through this suff'erance I might be forgiven, 

I have employ'd my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won. and how adored. 

n. 

But this is o'er — my pieasant task is aone : 
My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 
If I do blot thy final page with tears. 
Know that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 
But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
Which ever playing round me came and smiled. 
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight. 
Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
Thou too art ended — v.'hat is left me now ? 
For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 
I know not that — but in the innate force 
Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
. I have not sunk, for I had no ramorse, 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



oOT 



Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why ? 

Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 

I was indeed delirious in my heart 

To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 

But still my frenzy was not of the mind ; 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less jecause I suffer it unbent. 

That tliou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 

But let them go, or torture as they will. 

My heart can multiply thine image still ; 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretched are the faithful ; 't is their fate 

To have all feeling save the one decay, 

And every passion mto one dilate, 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 

III. 

Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies in captivity. 

And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl. 

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind, 

And dim the httle hght that 's left behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrant will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

VA^'ith these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd; 

'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close ; 

So let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 

I had forgotten half I would forget, 

But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot! — 

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 

In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 

Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 

Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows. 

And each is tortured in his separate hell — 

For we are crowded in our solitudes — 

Many, but each divided by the wall. 

Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call-^ 

None ! save that One, the veriest wTetch of all. 

Who was not made to be the mate of these. 

Nor bound between distraction and disease. 

Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? 

Who have debased me in the minds of men. 

Debarring me the usage of my own, 

BUghting my life in best of its career. 

Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear ? 

Would I not pay them back these pangs again. 

And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan ? 

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 

Which undermines our stoical success ? 

No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 

Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would (fie. 

Yes, sister of my sovereign ! for thy sake 

I weed all bitterness from out my breast. 

It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 



Thy brother hates — but I can not detest. 
Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 



Look on a love which knows not to despair. 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud. 
Tin struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 
And for a moment all things as they were 
FUt by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
.And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine. 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground , 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above , 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear : 
But thou art dearest still, and I shotild be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for th-e resi. 
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain. 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of pain. 

Yl. 

It is no marvel — from my very birtn 
My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
Of objects all inanimate I made 
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers. 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise. 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours. 
Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
Of such materials wretched men were made. 
And such a truant bey would end in woe, 
And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
And then they smote me, and I did not weojj. 
But cursed them in m.y heart, and to my haunt 
Retum'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain , 
And the whole heart exhaled into one want. 
But undefined, and wandering, till the dav 




1 found the thing I sought — and that was thee ; 
And then I lost my being all to be 
Absorb'd in thine — the world was past away — 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

VII. 

I loved all solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion \\\\\\. existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave ; 
But who hath seen me vsTithe, or heard me rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — mine is here. 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 't is clouded by ray dungeon roof. 

VIII. 

Yet do I feei at times my mind decline. 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted Ughts along my prison shine. 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feehng of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to one, who long hath suffer'd so. 
Sickness of heart, and narro^^"nes3 of place. 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but man. 
But spirits may be leagued with them — all earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
Of such defence the powers of evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assaU. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire ? becaiise I loved ! 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 



I once was quick in feehng — that is o'er ; — 

My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 

My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 

In mocker}' through them ; — if I bear and bore 

The much I have recounted, and the more 

Which hath no words, 't is that I would not die 

And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 

Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 

Stamp madness deep into my memory. 

And woo compassion to a bhghted name. 

Scaling the sentence which mv foes proclaim. 

No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 

A future temple of my present cell, 

Which nations yet shall \-isit for my sake. 

While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 

The ducal chiefs \^•ithin thee, shalt fall do^^^l, 

And crumbling piecemeal v-iew thy hearthless halls, 

A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 

A poet's d'.uigeon thy most far renown. 

While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled waUs ! 

And thou, Leonora ! thou — who wert ashamed 

That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 

To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 

Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 

Bv erief, years, weariness — and it may be 

A taint of that he would impute to me, 

From long infection of a den like this. 

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, — 

Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the towers 

And battlements which guard his joyous hours 

Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot. 

Or left untended in a dull repose. 

This — this shall be a consecrated spot ! 

But thou — when all that birth and beauty throws 

Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 

One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 

No power in death can tear our names apart, 

As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 

Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 

To be entwined for ever— but too late ! 



?i§etirrto Irttrlotrtessjj. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The subsequent poems were written at the request 
of my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of 
Hebrew Melodies, and have been pubhshed, with the 
,nusic, arranged by Mr. Braham and jNIr. Nathan. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

Shf walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cJoudless climes and starry skies ; 



And all that 's best of dark jmd l)righl 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress. 

Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 

How pure, how dear their dwelling-plac» 
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ' 



4 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



500 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 

The king of men, the loved of Heaven, 
Which Music hallow'd while she wept 

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 

Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 
It soflen'd men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own j 
No ear so duD, no soul so cold. 

That felt not, fired not to the tone, 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! 

It told the triumphs of our king, 

It wafted our glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring. 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to heaven, and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above. 

In dreams that day's broad Ught can not remove. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving love endears ; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To scar from earth, and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 't is not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf. 

Yet cling to being's severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound. 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 

May glance in tameless transport by : — 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright. 

Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's stateUer maids are gone ! 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 



But we must wander witheringly. 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be. 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream. 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell : 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell ' 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest ? 
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS 

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stra} , 

On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray. 

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy thunders step 

There — where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone ' 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself— none hving see and not expire ! 

Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear I 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's sj'f ar . 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ? 
How long thy temple worshipless. Oh God ? 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our country, our God — Oh! my sire ' 
Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- 
Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now ' 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er. 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that 1 love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, my father! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
And the last thought that soothes me below 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero imbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee. 
And my father and country are free ! 

When this blood of thy giving hath gu=h'^l 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'n, 
Let my memory still be thy pride. 
And forget not I smiled as I diecf . 



1 


510 BYRON'S WORKS. 


OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 


The triumphs of her chosen son. 


BLOOM. 


The slaughters of his sword ! 


Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 


The deeds he did, the fields he won, 
The freedom he restored ! 


But on thy turf shall roses rear 


Though thou art fall'n, while we are tree 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 


Their leaves, the earhesl of the year ; 


And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 


The generous blood that flow'd from thp*> 


And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 


Disdain'd to smk beneath : 
Within our veins its currents be. 


And feed deep thought with many a dream, 


Thy spirit on our breath : 


And lingering pause and lightly tread: 

Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! 


Thy name, our charging hosts along. 
Shall be the battle-word ! 


Away ! we know that tears are vain, 


Thy fall, the theme of choral song 


That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 


From virgin voices pour'd ! 


Will this unteach us to complain ? 


To weep would do thy glory wrong ; 


Or make one mourner weep the less ? 


Thou shalt not be deplored. 


And thou — who teU'st me to forget. 


,_ 


Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 






SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE. 


" 


MY SOUL IS DARK. 


Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 


My soul is dark.— Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 


Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 

Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 

Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 


Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 


Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 


If in this heart a hope be dear. 


That sound shall charm it forth again ; 


I*" in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain : 


Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 




Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 


But bid the strain be wild and deep. 


Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 


Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 


I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep. 


Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ' 


Or else this heavy heart will bui-st ; 


For it hath been by sorrov/ nurst, 




And ached in sleepless silence long ; 


SAUL. 


And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, 


Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 


And break at once — or yield to song. 




" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer!" 




I SAW THEE WEEP. 


I SAW thee weep— the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 


Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud: 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare : 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame. 
Like cavern'd v\ands, the hollow accents came. 


A violet dropping dew ; 
1 saw thee smile— the sapphire's blaze 
Beside thee ceased to shine. 


It could not match the living rays 


That fiU'd that glance of thine. 


Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 


As clouds from yonder sun receive 


At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 


A deep and mellow die. 


"Why is my sleep disquieted? 


Which scarce the shade of coming eve 


Who is he that calls the dead ? 


Can banish from the sky, 


Is it thou, oh king ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 


Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 


Theif own pure joy impart ; 


Such are mine ; and such shall be 


Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 


Thine, to-morrow, when with me : 


That lightens o'er the heart. 


Ere the coming day is done, 




Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 




THY DAYS ARE DONE. 


Thy riajs are done, thy fame begun ; 


Thou, thy race, lie pale and low. 


T/iv country's strains record 

i 


I ierced by shafts of many a bow : 



HEBREW MELODIES 511 


And the falchion by th/ side 


An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 


To thy heart, thy hand shall guide : 


Its years as moments shall endure. 


Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 


Away, away, vsdthout a wing. 


Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 


O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fl? 




A nameless and eternal thing, 


♦'ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER." 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 


Forgetting what it was to die. 


VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 


And health and youth possess'd me ; 


The king was on his throne. 


My goblets blush'd from every vine, 


The satraps throng'd the hail ; 


And lovely forms caress'd me ; 


A thousand bright lamps shone 


I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 


O'er that high festival. 


And felt my soul grow tender ; 


A thousand cups of gold, 


All earth can give, or mortal prize, 


In Judah deem'd divine — 


Was mine of regal splendour. 


Jehovah's vessels hold 




The godless heathen's wine ! 


I strive to number o'er what days 




Remembrance can discover, 


In that same hour and hall. 


Which all that Hfe or earth displays 


The fingers of a hand 


Would lure me to live over. 


Came forth against the wall. 


There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 


And wrote as if on sand : 


Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 


The fingers of a man ;— 


And not a trappmg deck'd my power 


A solitary hand 


That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 


Along the letters ran, 




And traced them Uke a wanci. 


The serpent of the field, by art 




And spells, is won from harming ; 


The monarch saw, and shook. 


But that which coils around the heart, 


And bade no more rejoice ; 


Oh ! who hath power of charming? 


All bloodless wax'd his look. 


It will not list to wisdom's lore, 


And tremulous his voice. 


Nor music's voice can lure it ; 


" Let the men of lore appeai. 


But there it stings for evermore 


The wisest of the earth, 


The soul that must endure it. 


And expound the words of fear, 




Which mar our royal mirth." 
Chaldea's seers are good, 


WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER- 


ING CLAY. 


But here they have no skill : 




And the unknown letters stood. 


Whtcn coldness wraps this suffering clay, 


Untold and awful still. 


Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 


And Babel's men of age 


It cannot die, it cannot stay, 


Are wise and deep m lore ; 
But now they were not sage. 


But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 


Then, unembodied, doth it trace 


They saw— but knew no more 


By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 




Or fill at once the realms of space, 


A captive in the land, 


A thing of eyes, that all survey? 


A stranger and a youth, 




He heard the king's command, 
He saw that writing's truth. 


Eternal, boundless, undecay'd. 


A thought unseen, but seeing all. 


The lamps around were bright. 


All, all in earth, or skies display'd. 


The prophecy in view ; 


Shall it survey, shall it recall : 


He read it on that night, — 


Each fainter trace that memory holds, 


The morrow proved it true 


So darkly of departed years, 




In one broad glance the soul beholds. 


" Belshazzar's grave is made, 


And all, that was, at once appears. 


His kingdom pass'd away. 




He in the balance weigh'd, 


Before creation peopled earth, 


Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state. 


Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 


And where the furthest heaven had birth. 


His canopy, the stone ; 


The spirit trace its rising track. 


The Mede is at his gate ! 


And where the future mars or makes. 


The Persian on his throne!" 


Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 




While sun is quench'd or system breaks. 




Fix'd in its own eternity. 


SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS' 


A.bove or love, hope, hate, or fear. 


Sun of the sleepless ! melanch(^ly star ' 


It lives all passif tiless and pure : 


Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far 



512 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
How like art thou to joy rcmember'd well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays : 
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold ! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 

If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 

If the exile on earth is an outcast on high. 

Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 

As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 

In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 

The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony. 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
Ah, couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding, 

And is she dead? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving ? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair : 

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.— 
But thou art cold, my murder' d love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She 's gone, who shared my diadem ! 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming. 
And mine 's the guilt, and mine the hell. 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well, 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome: 
T was thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
••"iasli'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home. 

And to'-got for a moment my bondage to come ; 

I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane. 

And !he fasl-fclter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 



On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shnno 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day. 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head I 

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father I is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAl 
DOW^N AND W^EPT. 

We sat down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
INIade Salem's high places his prey ; 

And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

WTiile sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roU'd on in freedom below, 

They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ! 

May this right hand be wither'd for ever. 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended, — 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended, 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SEN^^ACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew stiL 
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roU'd not the breath of his pride : 
Ajid the foam of hi? gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
And the widows of Ashur arc loud in their wail. 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote b>- the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5L3 



FROM JOB. 
A si'iRiT pass'd before me: I beheld 
The face of immcrtality unveil'd — 
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 
And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 
Along ray bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
And as my damp hair stifFen'd, thus it spake ; 



" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to wisdom's wasted hght !** 



M^i^tHUntoxw ^otmu. 



ODE 



XTiiPOZiSOir BJJONA.TIkIi.TS, 



"Expende Annibalem: — quot libras in duce summo 
Invenies 1" J U VLN AL. Sat. X. 



"The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, 
bjrthe Italians, and by the provincials of Gaul ; his moral vir- 
tues and military talents were loudly celebrated ; and those 
who derived any private benefit from his government an- 
nounced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. 



P.y this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few 
years, in a very ambiguous state, between an emperor and 

BJi exile, till " 

GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 

*Tis done — but yesterday a king ! 

And arm'd with kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing, 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones. 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones ? 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscall'd the morning star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind, 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — power to save — 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than Uttleness ! 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after- warriors more 
Than high philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That snell upon the mmds of men 
Breaks never to unite again. 

That led them to adore 
Those pagod things of sabre-sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
2 W 70 



The triumph and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife — * 
The earthquake shout of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd ! — Dark spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory ! 

The desolator desolate ! 

The victor overthrown ! 
The arbiter of others' fate 

A suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince— or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He 2 who of old \vould rend the oak 
Dream'd not of the rebound ; 

Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke, — 
Alone — how look'd he «-ound ? — 

Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 

An equal deed hast done at length, 
And darker fate hast found : 

He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; 

But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman,' when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart^ 

In savage grandeur, home. 
He dared depart, in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

The Spaniard,'' when the lust of swaj 
Had lost its quickening spell. 

Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
An empire for a cell ; 

A strict accountant of his beads, 

A subtle disputant on creeds, 
His dotage trifled well : 



1 Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila, m u& uo 
rangue to his army, previous to tlie battle of Chalons, ttw* 
in Cassiudorus. 

2 Milo. 

3 Sylla. 

4 Charles V 



611 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Yet better had he never known 

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leavest the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All evil spirit as thou art, 
It IS enough to grieve the heart, 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

And earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 

And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair freedom ! we may hold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more. 

Or deepen every stain. 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the worlu «.gain — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away ; 
But yet, methought, the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate 

To dazzle and dismay ; 
Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 

Thy still imperial bride : 
How bears her breasi the torturing hour ? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 

Then haste thee to thy sullen isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile. 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thme all idle hand, 
In loitering mood, upon the sand. 

That earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferr'd his by- word to thy brow. 

rhou Timor ! in his captive's cage* 
What thoughts will there be thine, 

iVhile brooding m thy prison'd rage ? 
Bui one — " The world was mine :" 



Unless, like he of Babylon, 

All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so httle worth ! 

Or like the thief of fire from heaven. 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock ? 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very fiend's arch mock ; - 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 

MONODY 



ON THE 

DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. 



R. B. SrtERIDAN 



SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 

When Cne last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself away. 

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? 

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 

While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 

Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime. 

Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 

The voiceless thought which would not speak but weeji 

A holy concord — and a bright regret, 

A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 

'T is not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 

Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 

A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 

Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain. 

Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 

When summer's day declines along the hills. 

So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 

When all of genius which can perish dies. 

A mighty spirit is eclipsed — a power 

Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 

Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 

Focus at once of all the rays of fame ! 

The flash of wit — the bright intelligence, 

The beam of song — the blaze of eloquence. 

Set with their sun — but still have left behind 

The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 

Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 

A deathless part of him who died too soon. 

But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 

These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 

Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all, 

To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 

From the charm'd council to the festive board 

Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied. 

The praised, the proud, who made his praise tho-- nride. 



» ThP Ottgc of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 



1 Promel!heus. 

2 "The fiend's arch mock- 
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste. 



ShaJcspiar$ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



515 



Wnen the loud cry of trampled Hindosfan 
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
A\s was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 
The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 
Which shook the nations through his hps — and blazed 
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 
An' here, oh ! here, where, yet all young and warm, 
Tho gay creations of his spirit charm, 
The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit. 
Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
The glowing portraits, fresh from hfe that bring 
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring ; 
These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought 
To fulness by the fiat of his thought. 
Here in their first abode you still may meet. 
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat ; 
^. halo of the hght of other days, 
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 
But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
Of failing wisdom yields a base delight, 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own. 
Still let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd vise might be but woe. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; 
Repose denies her requiem to his name. 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel — accuser — judge— and spy. 
The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain. 
The envious who but breathe in others' pain — 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
Who track the steps of glory to the grave. 
Watch every fault that daring genius owes 
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie. 
And pile the pyramid of calumny ! 
These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
If the high spirit must forget to soar. 
And stoop to strive with misery at the door, 
To soothe indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid rage — and wrestle with disgrace. 
To find in hope but the renew'd caress, 
The serpent-fold of further faithlessness, — 
If such may be the ills which men assail, 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from heaven. 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn. 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne. 
Driven o'er the louring atmosphere that nurst 
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch — and 

burst. 
But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be— if such have ever been ; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task. 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 

1 See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech 
on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of 
Uornmoas. Mr. Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give 
time for a calmer consideration of the question than could 

hen occur after the immediate effect of that oration. 



Ye orators ! whom yet our council yield. 
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field ! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three !^ 
Whose words were sparks of immortality ! 
Ye bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear 
He was your master — emulate him here ! 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
While powers of mind almost of boundless range, 
Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
While eloquence — wit — poesy — and mirth. 
That humbler harmonist of care on earth, 
Survive withm our souls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in merit's proud pre-emii .ence, 
Long shall we seek his hkeness- -long in vain. 
And turn to all of him which may remain. 
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 



THE IRISH AVATAR. 

Ere the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her giave, 
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, 
To the long-cherish'd Isle which he loved like his— 
bride. 

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone. 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause 

For the few little years, out of centuries won. 

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not hoi 
cause. 

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more. 

And the famine, which dwelt on her freedomless crags 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth : 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands. 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 

But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! 
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes. 

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! 

He comes in the promise and bloom of three-score. 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 

But long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er 
Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart ' 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again. 
And a new spring of noble affections arise — 

Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain. 
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skie». 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ? 

Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sms on his brow — - 

Such servile devotion might shame hira away. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lasli 
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 

fox. Pitt, BurKe 



61b 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

Ere TuLLY arose in the zenith of Rome, 

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun- 

Bu: Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the One ! 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute. 

And corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of 
his mind^ 



But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 

Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain ! 
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves. 

When a week's Saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the palace, Lo ! Erix, thy lord ! 
Kiss his foot with thy blessings denied ! 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last. 
If the Idol of Brass find his feet are of clay. 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield 
their prey ? 

Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign, — 
To reign I in that word see, ye ages, comprised, 

The cause of the curses all annals contain. 
From C^sAR the dreaded, to George the despised ! 

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping ! O'Connel, proclaim 
His accomplishments! His H ! and thy country 
convince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of Fame, 

And that »'Hal is the rascaliest sweetest young 
Prince !" 

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns '/ 

Ay ! " Build him a dwelling !" let each give his mite ! 

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and Helots their pittance unite— 

And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! 

Spread— spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast. 
Till the gluttonous despot be stuff''d to the gorge ! 

\nd the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd 
"George!" 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe ! 
L*""! the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne. 

Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has 
to flow, 

Hut let not his name be thine laol alone — 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 

rhnie own C astlereagh ! let him still be thine own ! 
A. wretch, neve- named but with curses and jeers ! 



Till now, when the Isle which should blush for his birth, 
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil. 

Seems proud of tne reptile which crawl'd from her earth, 
And for murder repays him with shouts and a sinile ! 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of ner race — 

The miscreant who wed mignt p.unge Erin in doubt 
Kshe ever gave oirtn wO a being so base. 

If she did — let her .ong-Doastea proverb be hush'd. 
Which procla'ms tnat from Erin no reptile can 
spring — 

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd. 
Still warming its folds m the breast of a King ! 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! Erin, how low 
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 

Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
The depth of thy deep m a deeper gulf still. 

My voice, though bu» iiumble, was raised lor thy rig'it. 
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free. 

This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy fight, 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb stil 
for thee ! 

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my 
land, 

I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons. 
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 

Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. 

For happy are they now reposing afar, — 

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war. 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day, — 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore. 

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled, 

There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy— thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 

Which though trod lilte the worm will not turn upon 
Power, 
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moork ! 

Sevt. im, 1821. 



THE DREAJNI. 
I. 

Our life is tw^ofold : sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence ; sleep hath its own world. 
And a wide realm of wild reality. 
And dreams in their developenient have breath. 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils. 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



51' 



And look like heralds of eternity : 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that 's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so ? 
Is not the past all shadow ? What are they? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild decli^aty, the last 
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
But a most Uving landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd ^^'ith a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd. 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on aU that was beneath 
Fair as herself— but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young, yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
Theuiaid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth. 
And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
He had no breath, no being, but in her's ; 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight. 
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers. 
Which colour'd all his objects ; — he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life, 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 
Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
Even as a brother — but no more ; 't was much, 
For brotherless she was, save in the name 
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 
Herself the solitary scion left 
Of a tirae-honour'd race. — It was a name 
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why? 
Time taught hho a deep answer — when she loved 
Another ; even now she loved another, 
And on the summit of that hUl she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
2 w 2 



ni. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

There was an ancient mansion, and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 

Within an antique oratory stood 

The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone. 

And pale, and pacing to and fro ; anon 

He sate him do\^-n, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which I could not guess of: then he lean'd 

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 

With a convulsion — then arose again. 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 

What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 

The lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded as it came ; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 

For they did part with mutual smiles : he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old hall. 

And mounting on his steed he went his way. 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams ; Ae was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer. 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded Uke waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
^Yhile many of his tribe slumber'd around ; 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love was wed with one 
Who did not love her better : in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home. 
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy. 
Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ' 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 
As if its lid were charged with unshijH tears 



.'J 1 8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



What could her grief be ?— she had all she loved, 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
Noi could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The star-light of his boyhood ; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should have been- 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiny came back, 
And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
What business had they there at such a time ? 

vn. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love ; — oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms, impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the \vise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth? 
Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
aiaking the cold reality too real ! 

vni. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The wanderer was alone as heretofore. 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at w^ar with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

W'th hatred and contention ; pain was mix'd 

In ail which was served up to him, until. 

Like <o the Pontic monarch of old days,' 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But wore a kind of nutriment ; he hved 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

Aiici n)<>drt him friends of mountains : vsdth the stars 



1 Mitnndates of Pontufl. 



And the quick spirit of the universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 

IX. 
My dream was past ; it had no further change. 
It was of a strange order, that the doom 
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
Almost hke a reality — the one 
To end in madness — both in misery. 



ODE. 
I. 

Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee. 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep * 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home. 
Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep* 
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streo** 
Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; 
And every monumerit the stranger meets. 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sintlil deeds 
Were but the overheating of the heart. 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
When vica walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, 
And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
And hope is nothing but a false delay. 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggering race which death is winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; 
Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay. 
To him appears renewal of his breath. 
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ;— 
And then he talks of life, and how agair. 
He feels his spirit soaring — albeit weaiv, 
And of the fresher air, w^hich he would seek ; 
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



519 



And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy- 
Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy, 
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 
And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 

II. 

There is no hope for nations ! Search the page 

Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 
For 't is our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
What have they given your children in return ? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage where your hire is blows. 
What ? do not yet the red-hot ploughshares bum, 
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 
All that your sires have left you, all that time 
Bequeaths of free, and history of subhme. 
Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read. 
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all. 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd. 
Gushing from freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud. 
And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain 
'T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd. 
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — 
Yes ! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 

III. 

Glory and empire ! once upon these towers 

With freedom — godlike triad ! how ye sate ! 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate, 
But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 
All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
Tli.c many felt, for from all days and climes 
Slie was the voyager's worship; — even her crimes 



Were of the softer order — bom of love. 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the deau. 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquesxs spread , 
For these restored the cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled, earth may thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, whicn clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them* a common woe. 
And call'd the " kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

IV. 

The name of commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time. 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown. 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime. 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, ana 
Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand. 
And i)roud distinction from each other land, 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion. 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance. 
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag. 
May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river. 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains. 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
Three paces, and then faltering: — better be 
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had. 
One freeman more, America, to thee ! 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
Some name arrests the passer-by ; 

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone. 
May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

And wnen by thee that name is read. 

Perchance in some succeeding yeaj , 
Reflect on me as on the dead. 
And think my heart is buried Rere 
September Hth^ 1809. 



>9n BYRON'S WORKS. 


ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 


A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 




ON THE 


DEL 


SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, 


SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA, 


Which, in the Arabic language, is to the followiiig 




purport. 


EL CUAL DECIA EN ARABIGO ASI. 


[The effect of the original ballad (which existed both in 




Spanish and Arabic) was such tliat it was forbidden to be 




sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada. J 


Paseabase el Rey more 


The Moorish king rides up and down 


Por la ciudad de Granada, 


Through Granada's royal town ; 


Desde la puerta dc Elvira 


From Elvira's gates to those 


Hasta la de Bivarambla. 


Of Bivarambla on he goes. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Cartas le fueron venidas 


Letters to the monarch tell 


Que Alhama era ganada. 


How AUiama's city fell ; 


Las cartas ech6 en el fuego, 


In the fire the scroll he threw, 


Y al mensagero matara. 


And the messenger he slew. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama • 


Descavalga de una mula. 


He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 


Y en un caballo cavalga. 


And through the street directs his course ; 


Por el Zacatin arriba 


Through the street of Zacatin 


Subido se habia al Alhambra. 


To the Alhambra spurring in. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 


When the Alhambra walls he gain'd. 


Al mismo punto mandaba 


On the moment he ordain'd 


Que se toquen las trompetas 


That the trumpet straight should sound 


Con anafiles de plata. 


With the silver clarion round. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama! 


Y que atambores de guerra 


And when the hollow drums of wai 


Apriesa toquen alarma ; 


Beat the loud alarm afar. 


Por que lo origan sus Moros, 


That the Moors of town and plain 


Los de la Vega y Granada. 


Might answer to the martial strain. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Los Moros que el son oyeron. 


Then the Moors, by this aware 


Que al sangriento Marte llama. 


That bloody Mars recall'd them there. 


Uno A uno, y dos d, dos, 


One by one, and two by two, 


Un gran escuadron formaban. 


To a mighty squadron grew. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Alii habl6 un Moro viejo ; 


Out then spake an aged Moor 


De esta manera hablaba :— 


In these words the king before, 


" I Para que nos llamas, Rey ? 


" Wherefore call on us, oh king ? 


I Para que es esta llamada?" 


What may mean this gathering?" 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


" Habeis de saber, amigos, 


" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 


U^na nueva desdichada : 


Of a most disastrous blow, 


Que cristianos, con braveza. 


That the Christians, stern and bold, 


Ya nos han tomado Alhama." 


Have obtain'd Albania's hold." 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Alii nabl6 un v5<yo Alfaqui, 


Out then spake old Alfaqui, 


De barba crecida y cana :— 


With his beard so white to see, 


- Bien se le emplea, buen Rey ; 


" Good king, thou art justly served. 


Buen Rey, bien se te empleaba. 


Good king, this thou hast deserved. 


Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


" Mataste ics Bencerrages, 


" By thee were slain, in evil hour, 


Que e-an la ** >■ ae Granada ; 


The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 


-'ogiste los tomadizos 


And strangers were received by thep 


'»<• C6rdova 'a nomDrada. 


Of Cordova the chivalry. 


Av de mi, Alhama 


Woe is me, Alhama • 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS- 



52 



Por eso mereces, Rev, 
Una pena bien doblada ; 
Que te pierdas tu y el reino, 

Y que se pierda Granada. 

Ay de mi, Albania ! 

Si no se respetan leyes, 
Es ley que todo se pierda ; 

Y que se pierda Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyera, 

Y como el otro de leyes 
De leyes tambien hablaba. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Sabe un Rey que no hay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto. — 
Eso dice el Rey moro 
Relinchando de c61era. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la vellida barba, 
El Rey te manda prender, 
^or la perdida de Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

JT cortarte la cabeza, 

Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea, 

Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

CabaUeros, hombres buenos, 
Decid de mi parte al Rey, 
Al Rey moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alliama ! 

De aberse Alhama perdido 
A mi me pesa en el alma ; 
Que si el Rey perdi6 su tierra 
Otro mucho mas perdiera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Perdieran hijos padres, 

Y casados las casadas : 
Las cosas que mas amara 
Perdio uno y otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Perdi una hija doncella 
Que era la flor d' esta tierra ; 
Cien doblasjdaba por ella. 
No me las estimo en nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Diciendo asi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Le cortaron la cabeza, 
Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
Asi como el Rey lo manda. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



" And for this, oh king ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement. 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won. 
And thyself wuth her undone." 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eye&, 
T]ie monarch's wrath began to rise. 
Because he answer'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings :" — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doom'd him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The king hath sent to have thee seized. 
For AUiama's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law. 
And others tremble when they saw. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" Cavalier ! and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe : 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the king his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their Uves , 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth or fame. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower , 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
And think her ransom cheap that dav.'' 
Woe is me, Alhama I 

And as these things the old Moor sai'l, 
They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's w^ail with specii 
T was carried, as the king decreed. 
Woe is me, Alhama ' 



622 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Hombres, ninos y mugeres, 
Lloran tan grande perdida. 
Lloraban todas las damas 
Cuantas en Granada habia. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Por las calles y ventanas 
Mucho luto parecia ; 
Llora el Rey como fembra, 
Qu' es mucho lo que perdia. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 



SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. 

PER MONACA. 

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta 
poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; e diretto al geni- 
tore della sacra sposa. 

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte 

Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo ; 

n ciel, che degne di piu nobil sorte, 

L' una e 1' altra veggendo, ambo chiedo 
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte 

A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo : 

La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 

Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. 
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa 

Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde 

La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 
lo verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda, 

Corro a quel marmo in cui la figlia or posa, 

Batto e ribatto, ma nessun risponde. 



STANZAS, 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF, 
NOVEMBER 14, 1809. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast, 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient v.'orld was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look, 

The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stem Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

l''\orence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell), 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 

Swi;et Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes. 
Thy charms might raise new Antonies. 

1 hough Fate forbids such things to be. 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee, 
Tii>» wn-.ld not lose thee *br a world. 



And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ! 
The king weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. 

ON A NUN. 

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughtei 
had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed 
to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. 

Of two fair virgins, modest though admired. 

Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires. 
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires. 

And gazing upon either, both required. 

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 
Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon expires . 
But thine, within the closing grate retired. 
Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 

But thou at least from out the jealous door. 
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
INIay'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more . 

7 to the marble, where my daughter Ues, 
Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, 
And knock, and knock, and knock — but none replies 



STANZAS, 

Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunder 
storm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza. near »he 
range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 

Where Pindus' mountains rise. 
And angry clouds are pouring fast 

The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost. 

And lightnings, as they play. 
But show where rocks our path have crost. 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom — 
How welcome were its shade ! — ah ! no ' 

'T is but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming water-falls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — 't is to tell 
The mountain peasants to descend. 

And lead us where they dwell. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



B'zA 



Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wildeiness ? 
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road ? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wandering through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow : 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, — 

Thy bark hath long been gone : 
Oh, may the storm that pours on me 

Bow down my head alone ! 

Full swiftly blew the swift; Siroc 

When last I press'd thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 

Hast trod the shore of Spain : 
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread. 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 

Do thou amidst the fair white walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free. 
At times from out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark-blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles. 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought's! of one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine ; 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 

And mourns in search of thine. 



TO * * * 



Oh Ladyl when I left the shore. 
The distant shore which gave me birth, 

I hardly thought to grieve once more. 
To quit another spot on earth : 



Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

Where panting nature droops the head, 
Where only thou art seen to smile, 

I view my parting hour with dread. 
Though far from Albin's craggy shore. 

Divided by the dark-blue main ; 
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er. 

Perchance I view her cliffs again : 
But wheresoe'er I now may roam. 

Through scorcliing clime and varied sea, 
Though time restore me to my home, 

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 
On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move. 
Whom but to see is to admire. 

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 
Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 

With such a word can^more offend ; 
And since thy heart I cannot share, 

Beheve me, what I am, thy friend. 
And who so cold as look on thee. 

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less ? 
Nor be, what man should ever be. 

The friend of beauty in distress ? 
Ah ! who would think that form had past 

Through danger's most destructive path, 
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast. 

And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 
Lady ! when I shall view the walls 

Where free Byzantium once arose ; 
And Stamboul's oriental halls 

The Turkish tyrants now enclose j 
Though mightiest in the lists of fame 

That glorious city still shall be ; 
On me 't will hold a dearer claim 

As spot of thy nativity : 
AikI though I bid thee now farewell, 

When I behold that wondrous scene. 
Since where thou art I may not dwell, 

'T will soothe to be where thou hast been. 
September, 1809. 



.WRITTEN AT ATHENS, 

JANUARY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown '. 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever ! 
We madly smile when we should groan ' 

Dehrium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 
Recalls the woes of Nature's chart-^r. 

And he that acts as wise men ought. 
But hves, as saints have died, a martyr. 



WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 
Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though now of love and thee bereft. 
To reconcile me with despair 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said with sorrow time can cope , 
But this, I feel, can ne'er be true ; 

For by the death-blow of m\ hope. 
My memory immortal grew. 



524 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"'RITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS 
TO ABYDOS,' MAY 9, 1810. 

If, in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd. 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 
For me, degenerate modern wl-etch, 

Though in the genial month of May, 
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 

And think I 've done a feat to-day. 
But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the doubtful story. 
To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 

And swam for love, as I for glory ; 
'T were hard to say who fared the best : 

Sad mortals ! thus the gods still plague you ! 
He lost his labour, I my jest, 

For he was drown'd, and I 've the ague. 



ZiOT] jxovy Gag aya-w.^ 
ATHENS, 1810. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Zci/? /xo5, cds ayaTtio. 



1 On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette {Captain Bathurst) 
was lyins in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that 
frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the Euro- 
pean shore to the Asiatic— by-the-by, from Abydos to Sestos 
wou'd have been more correct. The whole distance from the 
place whence we started to our landing on the other side, in- 
cluding the length we were carried by the current, was com- 
puted by those on board the frigate at upwards of four Eng- 
rish miles; though the actual breadth is barely one. The 
rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly 
across, and it may in some measure.be estimated jjrom the cir- 
cumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one 
of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour 
and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, fiom the 
melting of the mountain-snows. About three weeks before, 
in Aprd, we had made an attempt, but having ridden all the 
way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being 
of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the 
completion til! the frigate anchored below the castles, when 
we swam the straits, as just stated, entering a considerable 
way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic fort. 
Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for 
his mistress; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a 
NeapoHtan ; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither 
ol these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the at- 
tempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have 
accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that sur- 
prised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth 
of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascer- 
tain its practicability. 

2 Zoe moiL, sas agapo, or Zwt? /lov, ads ayairco, a Romaic 
expression of tenderness : if I translate it I shall affront the 
gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed they could not ; and 
if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of any miscon- 
Btruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging 
pardon of the learned. It means. "My life, I love you!" 
which sounds very pret'ily m all languages, and is as much 
\n fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two 
hrst words v/ere amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic ex- 
oressioM were all Hellenized. 



By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each iEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge. 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
ZojT} [xov, eras ayaitZ. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token- flowers' that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Z(3>7 fiov^ eras aya-rj. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. — 
Though I fly to Istambol,^ 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zwrj jUir?, era? dyaTrw. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
WAR-SONG, 

Aevts iralSes rujv '"EXh^viav, 

Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionizt 
Greece. The following translation is as literal as th^ autboi 
could make it in verse; it is of the same measure as thato 
the original. 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour's gone forth. 
And, worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORtrS. 

Sons of Greeks, let us go 

In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 

In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breakmg 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the seven-hill'd^ city seeking. 

Fight, conquer, till we 're free. 

Sons of Greeks, etc. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
Awake, and join thy numboi s 

With Athens, old ally ! 



1 In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they 
should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc.. 
convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy 
of Mercury— an old woman. A cinder says, ' ' I burn for thee;' 
a bunch of fiowers tied with hair, " Take me and fly ;' but 
pebble declares — what nothing else can. 

2 Constantinople. 

3 Constantinople. " 'ETrTa'Xo<t>os.'" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



525 



Leonidas recalling, 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling. 

The terrible, the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And, like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, etc. 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 

" MirevtJ fx£j Vff' nipiSoXi 
' n,paio~aTt) XarjSfi,^^ etc. 

The song from which this is taken is a great favourite with the 
young girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner of sing- 
ing it is by verses in rotation, the whole number present join- 
ing in the chorus. I have heard it frequently at our "^6poi^^ 
m the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty. 

I ENTER thy garden of roses, 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning when Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee. 

Yet trembles for what it has sung : 
As the branch, at the bidding of nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful, 

When love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock- — since mine is ungrateful, 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 

WiU deeply embitter the bowl ,- 
But when drunk to escape from thy mahce, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee ? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances, 

Secure of his conquest before. 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances. 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses. 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes. 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



ON PARTING, 

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left, 
^hall never part from mine, 
2X 



Till happier hours restore the gift 
Untainted back to thine. 

ITiy parting glance, which fondly beams 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid stream 

Can weep no change in me. 

1 ask no pledge to make me blest, 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast. 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I wri'5 — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle tvords avail. 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or woe. 

That heart, no longer free. 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent ache for thee. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot. 

And say, what truth might well have said« 
By all, save one, perchance forgot, 

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 
By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
Could this have been — a word, a look, 

That softly said, " We part in peace,'^ 
Had taught my bosom how to brook. 

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 
And didst thou not, since death for theo 

Prepared a light and pangless dart. 
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see. 

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? 
Oh ! who Hke him had watch'd thee here ? 

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye. 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 
Till all was past? But when no more 

'T was thine to reck of human woe, 
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 

Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow 
Shall they not flow, when many a day 

In these, to me, deserted tovvers. 
Ere call'd but for a time away. 

Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 
Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand , 
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied. 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
The kiss so guiltless and refined, 

That love each warmer wish forbore - 
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind. 

Even passion blush'd to plead for mou- 
The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 

When prone, unlike thee, to repine.. 
The song celestial from thy voice. 

But sweet to me from none bui ihine ; 



52G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 

But where is thine?— ah, where art thou? 
Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 

But never bent beneath till now ! 
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of woe for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 
But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere. 
Impart some portion of thy bliss. 

To wean me from mine anguish here. 
Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love was such to me. 

It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 



STANZAS. 

AwAV, away, ye notes of woe ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence, for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
1 must not think, I may not gaze 

On what I am, on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! 
7es, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart ! 

•T is silent all ! — -but on my ear 

The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still ; 
Yet oil my doubting soul 't will shake : 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then tum'd from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in vvrath, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 



TO THYRZA. 

Oni. struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain, 
One last long sigh to love and thee. 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle no^ 

W ith things that never pleased before : 
llioitgh every joy is fled below, 

'^^ hat future grief can touch me more? 



Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ; 

Man was not form'd to hve alone : 
I '11 be that light unmeaning th'ng 

That smiles with all and weeps with none 
It was not thus in days more dear, 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 

Thou 'rt nothing, all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would hghtly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear. 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath. 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel a while the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul. 

The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye ; 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 

When sailing o'er the JEgean wave, 
*' Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — " 

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
"'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains •' 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 't is idle then to give. 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life when Thyrza ceased to live ! 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days. 

When love and life alike were new. 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
Though cold as even the dead can be. 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou 'rt prest ' 
Time tempers love, but not removes. 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 



EUTHANASIA. 

When time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep thai lulls the deac" 

ObUvion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep or wish the coming blow r. 

No maiden, with dishevell'd hair. 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 



But silent let me sink to earth, 
With no officious mourners near : 

I would not mar one horn* of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs, 

Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'T were sweet, my Psyche, to the last 
Thy features still serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past. 

Even Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish— for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 

And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour. 
Without regret, without a groan ! 

For thousands death hath ceased to lour, 
And pain been transient or unknovm. 

" Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to Ufe and living woe ! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'T is something better not to be. 



STANZAS. 



dev ! quanta minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui memiaisse 1 
And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare. 

Too soon return'd to earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth. 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask v.here thou liest low. 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow. 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must .ove, 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'T is nothing that I loved so weJ. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 



The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine ; 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lours. 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away, 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch' d, 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a gi-eater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf. 

Than see it phick'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past. 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extmguish'd, not decay'd ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep. 

My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace. 

Uphold thy droopmg head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain. 

Though thou hast left me free, 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread eternity. 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its Uving years. 



STANZAS. 



If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore. 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak beiore. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile, 
I waste one thought I owe to thee, 

And, sclf-condemn'd, appear to smile. 
Unfaithful to thy memory .' 



ves 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Nor deem that memory less dear, 
That then I seem not to repine ; 

I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

II not the goblet pass unquaff'd, 
It is not drain'd to banish care, 

The cup must hold a deadlier draught 
That brings a Lethe for despair. 

And could oblivion set my soul 
From all her troubled visions fre^ 

I M dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
That drown'd a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou banish'd from my mind. 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honour thine abandon'd ui-n ? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'T is meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene. 

Where none regarded him, but thou ; 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of heaven, 

For earthly love to merit thee. 
March Uth, 1812. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
BROKEN. 

Ill-fatkd heart! and can it be 

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike been all employ'd in vain ? 

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
And every fragment dearer grown, 

Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his own. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

This poem and the following were written some years ago.] 
Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name. 
And childhood's gay sincerity 
Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 

What trifles oft the heart recall ; 
And those who once have loved the most 

Too soon forget they loved at all. 

Ami such the change the heart displays, 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
VV)I^ view thy mmd estranged again. 



If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine. 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide. 
So human feelings ebb and flow ; 

And who would in a breast confide 
Where stormy passions ever glow ? 

It boots not that, together bred. 

Our childish days were days of joy; 

My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu to 5-outh, 
Slaves to the specious world's control 

We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought, ere spoke, is unconfined. 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in man's maturer years. 
When man himself is but a tool ; 

When interest sways our hopes and fears 
And all must love or hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn at length our faults to blend, 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 

Can we reverse the general plan. 
Nor be what all in turn must be ? 

No, for myself, so dark my fate 

Through every turn of life hath beei , 

Man and the world I so much hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light. 
Wilt shine awliile, and pass away ; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the nigh 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet, 

(For cherish'd first in royal halls, 
The welcome vices kindly greet), 

Even now tnou 'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad. 
To join the vain and court the proud 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair. 
Still simpering on with eager haste, 

As flies along the gay parterre. 

That taint the flowers they scarcely tasto. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



520 



But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 

To flit along from dame to dame. 
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 

Wliat friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 
Will deign to own a kindred care ? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship every fool may share ? 

In time forbear ; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along : 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 



TO ***+♦+ 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband 's blest — and 't will impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 

When late I saw thy favourite child, 
I thought my jealous heart would break ; 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu ! I must away ; 

While thou art blest, I '11 not repine ; 
Brit near thee I can never stay ; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame : 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side. 
My heart in all, save hope, the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
My breast woulJ thrill before thy look ; 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face. 

Yet meet with no confusion there ; 

II n(i only feeling cnuldst thou trace — 
l^ke sullen calmness of despair. 

L^r-xyl away! my early dream 
ntemembrance never must awake : 

Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
My foolish heart, be still, or break. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

In moments to delight devoted, 

*' My life !" with tenderest tone, you cry ; 
Dear words on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 
3x2 72 



To death even hours like these must rol. : 
Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 

Or change "my life" into "my soul!" 
Which, like my love, exists for ever. 



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When from the heart where Sorrow sits. 

Her dusky shadow mounts too high. 
And o'er the changing aspect flits. 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 

My thoughts their dungeon know too weE ; 
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink 

And droop within their silent cell. 



ADDRESS, 



SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LAKE 
THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride : 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh ! sjght admired and mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven. 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning doiutj 
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home. 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shono 
The skies with lightnings awful as their own, 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
Say— shaU this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the migjitiest in our isle, 
Know the same favour which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you J 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And bids the Drama he where she hath been : 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say. How well ! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the pabt 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest l.fc...i 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'^i dnd claims — nor you refus* 
One tribute to . .vive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own IMenander's heail ! 
Nor hoard your honours id'.v for iIk dead ' 



530 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 


That beam hath sunk ; and now thou art 


Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 


A blank ; a thing to count and curse 


Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs. 


Through each dull, tedious trifling part, 


Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs ; 


Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 


While thus remembrance borrows Banquo's glass, 


One scene even thou canst not deform ; 


To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 


The limit of thy sloth or speed, 


And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 


When future wanderers bear the storm 


Immortal names, emblazon'd on our Ime, 


Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 


Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn. 


And I can smile to think how weak 


Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 


Thme efforts shortly shall be shown, 




When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 


Friends of the stage ! to whom both players and plays 


Must fall upon — a nameless stone ! 


Must sue ahke for pardon or for praise, 




Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 


~ 




The boundless power to cherish or reject; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame. 




TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONd 


And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 


Ah ! Love was never yet without 


If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 


The pang, the agony, the doubt. 


To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend. 


Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh. 


All past reproach may present scenes refute, 


While day and night roll darkling by. 


Ajid censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 




Oh ! since your fiat stamps the drama's laws. 


Without one friend to hear my woe. 


Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 


I faint, I die beneath the blow. 


So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 


That Love had arrows, well I knew : 


And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 


Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 


This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd. 


Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net. 


The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 


Which Love around your haunts hath se 


Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 


Or, circled by his fatal fire. 


Sprmgs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 


Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 


The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 


A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 
But caught within the subtle snare, 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 


Scones not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 


Siill may we please— long, long may you preside! 




TO TIME. 


Can neither feel nor pity pain. 




The cold repulse, the look askance. 


Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 


The lightning of love's angry glance. 


The varying hours must flag or fly, 




Whose tai-dy winter, fleeting spring. 


In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 


But drag or drive us on to die — 


Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 


Hail thou ! who on my birtli bestovv'd 


Like melting wax, or withering flower. 


Those boons to all that know thee known ; 


I feel my passion, and thy power. 


Yet better I sustain thy load. 


My light of hfe ! ah, tell me why 


For now I bear the weight alone. 


That pouting hp, and alter'd eye ? 


I would not one fond heart should share 


My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 


The bitter moments thou hast given ; 


And art thou changed, and canst thou hate f 


And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare, 




All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 


Mine eyes Uke wintry streams o'erflow : 


To them be joy or rest, on me 


What wretch with me would barter woe ? j 


Thy future ills shall press in vain ; 


My bird ! relent : one note could give |. 


I nothing owe but years to thee. 


A charm, to bid thy lover live. 


A debt already paid in pain. 


My curdlmg blood, my maddening brain. 


f et e'en that pain was some relief; 


In silent anguish I sustain ! 


It felt, but still forgot thy power : 


And still thy heart, without partaking 


The active agony of grief 


One pang, exults — while mine is breakhic 


Retards, but never counts the hour. 




In joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 


Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 


Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 


Thou canst not murder more than now : 


'I'hv cloud could overcast the light, 
But could not add a night to woe; 


I 've lived to curse my natal day, 
And love, that thus can lingering slay. 


For then, however drear and dark. 


My wounded soul, my bleeding breast. 


My soul was suited to thy sky ; 


Can patience preach thee into rest ? 


t'ne star alone shot forth a spaik 


Alas ! too late I dearly know, 


, To prove thee -not Eternity. 


That joy is harbinger of woe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



53) 



A SONG. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
To those thyself so fondly sought ; 

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 

'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 

Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises, 

And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
But she who not a thought disguises, 

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
When she can change who loved so truly, 
It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
Is doom'd to all who love or hve ; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow, 
We scarce our fancy can forgive. 

That cheated us in slumber only. 

To leave the waking soul more lonely. 

What must they feel whom no false vision, 
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition. 
As if a dream alone had charm'd? 

Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 

And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
"ORIGIN OF LOVE?" 

The "Origin of Love !" — Ah, why 

That cruel question ask of me. 
When thou may'st read in many an eye 

He starts to life on seeing thee ? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know : 
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 

He '11 linger long in silent woe ; 
But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, etc. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 
Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 

Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye, 

Too much invited to be blest: 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh. 

The wilder wish reproved, represt. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost. 

But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when majiy a tongue, 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong. 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 



Think that, whale' er to others, thou 
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued ; 

I bless thy purer soul even now. 
Even now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God ! that v/e nad met m time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 

When thou hadsl loved without a crime, 
And I been less unworthy thee ' 

Far may thy days, as heretofore. 
From this our gaudy world be past ! 

And, that too bitter moment o'er. 
Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 

This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
Itself destroy'd might there destroy , 

To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
Would wake presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 

That world resign — such scenes forego. 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness. 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure. 

From what even here hath past, may guess, 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear. 
Since not by virtue shed in vain. 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be. 
The thought that we no more may meet ; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree. 

And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 

It felt not half so much to part. 
As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



LINES 

INSCRIBED UPOS A CUP FORMED FROM A SKin I. 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 

In me behold the only skuU 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quaff 'd, like thee ; 

I died ; let earth my bones resign -• 
Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 

The worm hath fouler hps than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brooij • 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of gods, than reptiles' food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hatn siion- 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas ! our brains are gore. 

What noble** substitute than wine 7 



,S3^2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



QuafF while thou canst — another race, 

When thou and thine like me are sped, 
May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 

A.nd rhyme and revel with the dead. 
Why not ? since through life's little day 

Our heads such sad effects produce ; 
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 

This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
Newstead Abbey, 1808. 



»N THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, 
BART. 

There is a tear for all that die, 
A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry, 
And triumph weeps above the brave. 

For them is sorrow's purest sigh 

O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent : 
In vain their bones unburied lie, 

All earth becomes their monument ! 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitaph on every tongue. 
The present hours, the future age. 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound ; 

While deep remembrance pours to worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not. 

Lamented by admiring foes. 
Who would not share their glorious lot ? 

Who would not die the death they chose? 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy hfe, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 

And early valour, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

Bui there are breasts that bleed with thee 

In woe, that glory cannot quell ; 
And shuddering hear of victory. 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness. 

While grief's full heart is fed by fame. 

\las ! for them, though not for thee. 
They cannot choose but weep the more ; 

Ueep foi the dead the grief must be 
Who ne'er gave cauye to mourn before. 



TO A LADY WEEPING. 

Weep, daughter of a royal Une, 

A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 
Ah, happy ! if each tear of thine 

Could wash a father's fault away ! 
Weep — for thy tears are virtue's tears- 

Anspicious to these suffering isles ; 
And be each drop, in future years 

Repaid thee bv thy oeople's smiles ! 
Aforc/i. 1812, 



FROM THE TURKISH. 
The chain I gave was fair to view, 

The lute I added sweet in sound. 
The heart that ofFer'd both was true, 

And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell 
Thy truth in absence to divine ; 

And they have done their duty well, 
Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 

That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet — till thou couldst think 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 

The chain is broke, the music mute ; 
'T is past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



SONNET. 

TO GENEVRA. 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair. 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wrought. 

Seems sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colours blent, 
When from his beauty-breathing pencil corn, 

(Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 
The Magdalen of Guide saw the morn — 

Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent I 
With nought remorse can claim — nor virtue scorn 



SONNET. 



TO GENEVRA. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, 
And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow ; — 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending 
The soul of melancholy gentleness 

Gleams hke a seraph from the sky descending, 
Above all pain, yet pitymg all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



INSCRIPTION 

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEAVFOUNDLAND 

When some proud son of man returns tv earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 



The sculptor's art exiausts the pomp of woe, 
And storied urns, record who rests below ; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen. 
Not what he was, but what he should have been : 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
Cnhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth. 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: 
While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven. 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour. 
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust. 
Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn. 
Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : 
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise — 
I never knew but one, and here he lies. 
Newstead Abbey ^ Oct. 30, 1808. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on high. 
Mine will not all be lost in air. 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word — Farewell! — Farewell! 
These hps are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain. 

Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 



Bright be the place of thy soul! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control. 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine, 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine. 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 
Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
Young flowers and an evergreen tree 

May spring from the spot of thy rest . 
But nor cj^ress nor yew let us see ; 

For why should we mourn for the West ? 



When we two parted 

In silence and tears. 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold. 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 
In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee ? 

With silence and tears. 



1808. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

O LacrymaruTO fons, tenero sacroa 
Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater 
I'elLx ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. 

GRAY'S POEMATA 

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 

away, 
When the glow of early tnought declines in feeling's 

dull decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smoo'"h cheek the blush alone, 

which fades so fast. 
But the tender bloom of h«\rt is gone, ere youth itself 

be past. 

Then the few whose spirits fioat above the wreck of 

happiness. 
Are driven o'er the shoals o' guilt or ocean of excess . 
The magnet of their cours* tn gone, or only points in 

vain 
The shore to which their shi^e/'d sail shall npver stkctch 

again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the sciJ like deaih uself 

comes down , 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream rts own: 



1 These Verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr Pt>wer 
Strand, who has punlished them, with very beBitifu! kjimjc \tv 
Sir John Stevenson 



a34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 
tears, 

And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the 
ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
tract the breast, 

Through midnight hours that yield no more their for- 
mer hope of rest; 

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret ^vreathe, 

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 
beneatb- 

Oh could I feel as 1 nave felt, — or be what I have been, 

Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a van- 
ish'd scene : 

As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet — alJ brackish 
though they be, — 

»o, 'midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 

flow to mo. 

1815. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And Uke music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charm'd ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 

Whose breast is gently heaving. 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of summer's ocean. 



FARE THEE WELL. 



Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 

But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 

And constancy lives in realms above :_ 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 

And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain- 
****** 

But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart from paining— 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 

Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between. 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
"^he marks of tliat which once hath been. 

COLERIDGE'S Christdbel 



f ARE thee well ! and if for ever. 

Still for ever, fare thee well ! 
8iVen though unforgiving, never 

^Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
Would that Dreast were bared before thee 

Where th\ head so ofl hath lain, 



While that placid sleep came o'er thee 

Which thou ne'er canst know again: 
Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 

Every inmost thought could show ! 
Then thou wouldst at last discover 

'T was not well to spurn it so. 
Though the world for this commend tne&— 

Though it smile upon the blow. 
Even its praises must offend thee. 

Founded on another's woe — 
Though my many faults defaced me. 

Could no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless v/ound ? 
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not. 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 
Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 
And the undying thought which paineth 

Is — that we no more may meet. 
These are w-ords of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead ; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widow'd bed. 
And when thou wouldst solace gather. 

When our child's first accents flow, 
Wilt thou teach her to say " Father !" 

Though his care she must forego ? 
When her httle hands shall press thee, 

When her lip to thine is prest, 
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee 

Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
Should her Uneaments resemble 

Those thou never more may'st see. 
Then thy heart wall softly tremble 

With a pulse yet true to me. 
All my faults perchance thou knowest, 

All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 

Wither — yet with thee they go. 
Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 

Even my soul forsakes me now ; 
But 't is done — all words are idle — 

Words from me are vainer still ; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 

Force their way without the will. — 
Fare thee well ! — thus disunited. 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted— 

More than this I scarce can die. 



TO * * * 
When all around grew drear and dark, 

And reason half withheld her ray — 
And hope but shed a dying spark 

Which more misled my lonely way ; 
In that deep midnight of the mind. 

And that internal strife of heart, 
When, dreading to be deem'd too kind, 

The weak despair — the cold depart ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



53!". 



When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred'? shafts fl-ew thick and fast, 

Thou wert thft iohtary star 
Which rose and set not to the last. 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came. 
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame. 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine. 
And teach it what to brave or brook — 

There 's more in one soft word of thine. 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree. 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The winds might rend, the skies might pour, 
But there thou wert — and still wouldst be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou and thine shall know no bUght, 
Whatever fate on me may fall ; 

For heaven in sunshine will requite 
The kmd — and thee the most of all. 

Then let the ties of baffled love 
Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 

imd these, when all was lost beside, 
Were found, and still are fixed, in thee — 

And bearing still a breast so tried. 
Earth is no desert — even to me. 



ODE. 



[from the FRENCH.] 

Wfi do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
Though freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; 
There 't was shed, but is not sunk — 
Rising from each gory trunk, 
Like the water-spout from ocean, 
With a strong and growing motion — 
It soars and mingles in the air, 
With that of lost Labedovere — 
With that of him whose honour'd grave 
Contains the "bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cload it spreads and glows. 
But shall return to whence it rose ; 
When 'tis full, 't will burst asunder — 
Never yet was heard such thunder 
Vs then shall shake the world v/ith wonder- 
Never yet was seen such lightning. 
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 
Like the Wormwood star, foretold 
By the sainted seer of old, 



Showering down a fiery 1( od, 
Turning rivers into blooc' 

The chief has fallen, but not by you , 
Vanquishers of Waterloo ' 
When the soldier citizen 
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 
Save in deeds that led them on 
Where glory smiled on freedom's son — 
Who, of all the despots banded. 

With that youthful chief competed? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated. 
Till lone tyranny commanded ? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The hero sunk into the king? 
Then he fell ; — so perish all. 
Who would men by man enthral ! 

And thou too of the snow-white plume ! 
Whose reaim refused thee even a tomb j^ 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding. 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as he of Naples wears. 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 

On thy war-horse through the ranks, 

Like a stream which burst its banks. 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing. 
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee : 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
Once as the moon sways o'er the tide, 
It roU'd in air, the warrior's guide j 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight. 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendency,— 
And as it onward rolling rose 
So moved his heart upon our foes. 
There, where death's brief pang was quickes' 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her 

Who could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain : 
There be sure was Murat charging! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ! 



1 See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, etc. " The first angel sounded 
and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," etc. 

Verge 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a 
great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea ; and 
the third part of the sea became blood," etc. 

Verse 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a 
great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp ; and it fel 
upon a third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains oi 
waters." 

Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood 
and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and 
many men died of the waters, because they were made 
bitter." 

2 Murat' 8 remains are said to have been torn from the P'sva 
and burnt. 



53b 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



O'er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice, 

With her heart in her voice ; 

Put her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored ; 

France hath twice too well been taught 

The " moral lesson" dearly bought — 

Her safety sits not on a throne, 

With Capet or Napoleon! 

But in equal rights and laws, 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven, 

With their breath, and from their birth, 

Though guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations' wealth hke sand ; 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

But the heart and the mind. 
And the voice of mankmd. 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union ? 
The time is past when swords subdued — 
Man may die — the soul 's renew'd : 
Even in this low world of care. 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for-ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble. 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



[FROM THE FRENCH.] 

AH wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who 
had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He clung 
to his master's knees ; wioto a letter to Lord Keith, entreat- 
ing permission to accompany liim, even in the most menial 
capacity, which could not be admitted." 

Must thou go, my glorious chief, 

Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Madderung o'er that long adieu? 
Woman's love and friendship's zeal — 

Dear as both have been to me — 
A^'hat are they to all I feel. 

With a soldier's faith, for thee ? 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

J'irst in fight, but mightiest now : 
Many could a world control : 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

jL)eath, and envied those who fell. 
When their dying shout was heard 

Blessing him they sei ved so well. ' 



» At Waterloo, one man was seen, whoso left arm was shat- 
<Tcd by a cannon-ball, to wrench it off" with the other, and, 
*irowing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, ' Vive 
'Empereuf jusqu'k la mort.' There were many otlier in- 
"rtancei? of the like; this you may, however, depend on as 
aue. ' A private Letter from Brussels. 



Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I five to see ; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee. 
Dreading each should set thee free. 

Oh! although in dungeons pent. 
All their chains were light to me. 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer. 
Were his borrow'd glories dim, 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his ov/n, 

All thou calmly dost resign. 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine ? 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Neeer did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue. 

As his foes I now implore. 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave. 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR 

[from the FRENCH.] 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 

Which miUions rush'd in arms to greet, — 

Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 

Why rise in heaven to set on earth ? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays j 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ! 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here ; 
And thy light broke on human eyes 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,. 
And swept down empires with its flood ; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst Ughten through all space j 
And the shorn sun grew dim in air. 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue, 

Of three bright colours,' each divine. 

And fit for that celestial sign ; 

For freedom's hand had blended them 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, the blue depth of seraphs' eyes ; 
One, the pure spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light ; 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 



1 The tri-colour. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



537 



Slar of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, oh goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

[FROil THE FRENCH.] 

Fax f.wELL to the land where the gloom of my glory 

ArcK^./ and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 

She abandons me now, — but the page of her story, 

The brightest or blackest, is fiU'd with my fame. 

I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me orJy 

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 

lonely. 
The last single captive to millions in war ! 

Faiewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me, 

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 

But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 

Decay'd in thy glory and sunk in thy worth. 

Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 

Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted. 

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on Victory's sun ! 

Farewell to thee, France ! — but when liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again: 
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
There are links which must break in the chain that has 

bound us. 
Then turn thee, and call on the chief of thv choice ! 



SON^'ET. 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stael — 
Leman ! ' these names are worthy of thy shore, 
Thy shore of names like these ; wert thou no more. 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all : 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of michty minds doth hallow in the core 

Of human hearts the ruin of a waU 

Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous ; but by thee 
Tow much more. Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
In sweetly eliding o'er thy cr\'stal sea, 

1 ^ wild |,iow of that not ungentle zeal, 
"^hich of the heirs of imnwlality 

Is p. iud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 



WRITTEN ON A BLANT5: LEAF OF "THE 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee. 

My friend, what magic spells belong f 
As aU can tell, who share, hke me. 

In turn, thy converse and thy song. 
But when the dreaded hour shall come. 

By friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 
And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 

Shall weep that aueht of thee can die, 
How fondly will she then repay 

Thy homage ofl^er'd at her shrine. 
And blend, while ages roll away, 

Her name immortally with thine ! 
April 19, 1812. 



1 Geneva, Femey, Coppet, Lausanne. 
2Y 73 



STANZAS TO *** 

Though the day of my destiny's over. 

And the star of my fate hath declined. 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainied. 

It shrunk not to share it with me. 
And the iove which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling 

The last smile which arswers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguilin?, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn- 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

'T is of thee that I think— not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me. 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,- 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. 

Though parted, it was not to fly. 
Though watchful, 't was not to defame me. 

Nor mute, that the world migrit belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
]• my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'T was folly not sooner to shun. 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me. 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From I'ae v^Teck of the pas% whiv^h hath perls'^ o 

Thus much I at least may recall. 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'i: 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 



538 



BYRONS WORKS. 



In the desert a fountain is springing, 
In the wide waste there still is a tree, 

And a bird in the solitude singing, 
Which speaks to iny spirit of thee. 



DARKNESS. 
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 
Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day. 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Ol this their desolation ; and all hearts 
Were chill'd into a seUish prayer for hght: 
And they did live by watch-fires — and the thrones. 
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
The habitations of all things Avhich dwell. 
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 
To look once more into each other's face : 
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
Of the volcanos and iheir mountain-torch : 
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ; 
Foreslr. were set on fire — but hour by hour 
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon 'hem ; some lay down 
And hid their eyes and wept : and some did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
The pall of a past world ; and then again 
With curses cast them down upon the Just, 
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd; the wild birds 

shriek' d. 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground. 
And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude. 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And war, which for a moment was no more. 
Did glut himself again — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart. 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was death. 
Immediate and inglorious : and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Diea, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 
F-\tn dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
\nd he was faithful to a corse and k'^pt 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their .ank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
But wi'h a piteous and perpetual moan 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
W' nich answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
'J'he ciowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
( )f an enormous city did survive. 
And inev were enemies ; they met beside 
The wvjrtg embers of ar altar-place. 



Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 

For an unholy usage ; they raked up. 

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton handd 

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 

Blew for a little life, and made a flame 

Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each others' aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died. 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written fiend. The world was void, 

The populous and the powerful was a lump, 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 

A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still, 

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. 

And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd, 

They slept on the abyss without a surge — 

The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 

The moon their mistress had expired before : 

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air. 

And the clouds perish'd ; darkness had no need 

Of aid from them — she was the universe. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 

A FACT LITERALLV RENDERED. 

I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow than of awe 

On that neglected turf and quiet stone. 

With name no clearer than the names unknown, 

Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The gardener of that ground, why it might l)e 

That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 

1 hrough the thick deaths of half a century ; 

And thus he answ^er'd — " Well, 1 do not know 

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 

He died before my day of sextonship. 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 

And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of immortality, and crave 

I know not what of honour and of light 

Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 

So soon and so successless ? As I said. 

The architect of all on which we tread. 

For earth is but a tombstone, did essay 

To extricate remembrance from the clay. 

Whose mmglings might confuse a Newton's thoupni 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 

Of which we are but dreamers; — as he cau<?hl 

As 'twere the twilight of a former sun, 

Thus spoke he, — ^'I believe the man of whom 

You wot, who lies m this selected tomb. 

Was a most famous writer in nis day. 

And therefore travellers step from out their way 

To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 

Your honour pleases" — then most pleased I shooii 

From out my pocket's avaricious ncsk 

Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were 

Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 

So much but inconveniently ; — ye smile, 

I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



yy 



Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a softeu'd eye, 
On that old sexton's natural homily, 
(n which there was obscurity and fame, 
Hie siorv and the nothing of a name. 



PROMETHEUS. 
TiTAX ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality. 
Were not as things that gods despise ; 
What was thv pity's recompense? 
A silent suffering, and intense ; 
The rock, the -\adture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The suffocating sense of woe, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 

Between the suffering and the will. 

Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorabh heaven. 
And the deaf tyranny of fate. 
The ruling principle of hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate. 
Refused thee even the boon to die ■ 
The \NTetched gift eternity 

Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee. 

But would not to appease him tell: 
And in thy silence was his sentence, 
And in his soul a vain repentance, 
And evil dread so ill dissembled 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

Thy godlike crime was to be kmd, 

To render ^^^th thy precepts less 

The sum of human \\Tetchedness, 
And strengthen man ^vith his own mind ; 
But baffled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy. 

In the endurance, and repulse 
Of thine impenetrable spirit. 

Which earth and neaven could not convulse, 
A mighty lesson- we inherit : 

Thou art a symbol and a sign 
To mortals of their late and force ; 

Like thee, man is iii part divine, 
A troubled stream from a purs source ; 
And man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His ^^Tc■tchedness, and his resistance. 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his spirit may oppose 
Itself— an eaual to all woes, 



And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making death a victorv. 



ODE. 



Oh shame to thee, land of the Gaui ! 

Oh shame to thy children ami thee ! 
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, 

How wretched thy portion shall be • 
Derision snail strike thee forlorn, 

A mockery that never shall die ; 
The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn-. 

Shall burden the winds of thy sky , 
And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd 
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world '. 

Oh, where is thy spirit of yore. 

The spirit that breathed in thy dead, 
When gallantry's star was the beacon before, 

And honour the passion that led ? 
Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep. 

They groan from the place of their rest, 
And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep. 

To see the foul stain on thy breast ; 
For where is the glory they left thee in trust ? 
'T is scatter'd in darkness, 't is trampled in dust ! 

Go, look to the kingdoms of earth, 

From Indus all round to the pole, 
And something of goodness, of honour, and worth. 

Shall brighten the sins of the soul. 
But thou art alone in thy shame, 

The world cannot liken thee there ; 
Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name 

Beyond the low reach of compare ; 
Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us tlirough time 
A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime I 

WTiile conquest illumined his sword. 

While yet in his prowess he stood, 
Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thv lord 

And welcomed the torrent of blood : 
Though tyranny sat on his crown, 

And wither'd the nations afar, 
Yet bright in thy ^^ew was that despot's renown. 

Till fortune deserted his car ; 
TTien back from the chieftain thou slunkest awB»; 
The foremost to insult, the first to betray ! 

Forgot were the feats he had done, 

The toils he had borne in thy cause • 
Thou tumed'st to worship a new rising sun. 

And waft other songs of applause. 
But the storm was beginning to lour. 

Adversity clouded his beam ; 
And honour and faith were the brag of an ho.i*. 

And loyalty's self but a dream : — 
To him thou hadst banish'd thy vo'ws weie restoieftj 
And tlie first that had scoff 'd '.vere the first that ai K r'>d. 

What tumult thus burthens the air ? 
What throng thus encircles his throne.'' 



S40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



r IS the shout ofdeliglit, 't is the millions that swear 
His sceptre shall ru'e them alone. 
Reverses shall brighten their zeal, 
Misfortune shall hallow his name, 
And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel 

How quenchless the spirit and flame 
That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts 

are on fire, 
For the hero they love, and the chief they admire ! 

Their hero has rush'd to the field ; 

His laurels are cover'd with shade — 
But where is the spirit that never should yield, 

The loyalty never to fade ? 
In a moment desertion and guile 

Abandon'd him up to the foe; 
The dastards that flourish'd and grew in his smile 

Forsook and renounced him in woe ; 
And the millions that swore they would perish to save, 
Beheid h.m a fugitive, captive, and slave! 

The savage, all wild in his glen. 

Is nobler and better than thou ; 
rhou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, 

Such perfidy blackens thy brow! 
If thou wert the place of my birth. 

At once from thy arms would I sever ; 
I 'd fly to the uttermost parts of the earth. 

And quit thee for ever and ever ; 
A.nd thinkmg of thee in my long after-years, 
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears. 

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul ! 

Oh, shame to thy children and thee! 
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall. 

How wretched thy portion shall be! 
Derision shall strike thee forlorn. 

And mockery that never shall die ; 
The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, 

Shall burthen the winds of thy sky ; 
And proud o'er thy ruin for over be hurl'd 
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world ! 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

Lines composed on the occasion of H. R. H. the P c 

R_g_t being seen standing betwixt the coffins of Henry 
VIII. and Charles I. in the royal vault at Windsor. 

Fami d for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
By headless Charles, see heartless Henry lies ; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife — 
In him the double tyrant starts to life: 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain. 
Each royal vampyre wakes to life again: 
Ah! what can tombs avail — since these disgorge 

The blood and dust of both to mould a G...ge. 

1813. 



\ SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE. 

Honest — honest lago I 

If that thou be'st a devil. I cannot kill thee ! 

SHAKSPEARE. 

HoRW m the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
rromoted ihence to deck her mistress' head; 



Next — for some gracious service unex> .-est, 

And from its wages only to be guess'c — 

Raised from the toilet to the table, where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chait : 

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash",:!, 

She dines from off" the plate she lately wus (. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, 

The genial confidante and general spy ; 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment j -less ? 

An only infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so -^'ell. 

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spcL.. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows, 

As many a nameless slander deftly show? ; 

What she had made the pupil of her art, 

None know — but that high soul secured the heo't. 

And panted for the truth it could not heu.r, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind. 
Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could not bliM, 
Deceit infect not, near contagion soil. 
Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil. 
Nor master'd science tempt her to look down 
On humbler talents with a pitying frown. 
Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain. 
Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain. 
Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow, 
Nor virtue teach austerity — till now. 
Serenely purest of her sex that live. 
But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive ; 
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
She deems that all could be like her below: 
Foe to all vice, yet hardly virtue's friend — 
For virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme — now laid aside too long. 
The baleful burthen of this honest song — 
Though all her former functions are no more, 
She rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers — none know why — before her quake, 
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake ; 
If early habits — those false links which bind. 
At times, the loftiest to the meanest mind- 
Have given her power too deeply to instil 
The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
If like a snake she steal within your walls, 
Till the black shme betray her as she crawls ; 
If like a viper to the heart she wind. 
And leave the venom there she did not find ; 
What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
Eternal evil latent as she lurks. 
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ! 

SkiU'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints, 
With all the kind mendacity of hints, 
While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles, 
A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming. 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scher.iing; 
A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal, 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel ; 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown, 
A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone. 
Mark how the channels of her yellov/ blood 
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to muf^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



54] 



Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
Oi darker greenness of the scorpion's scale, 
(Fur drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colours in that soul or face). 
Look on her features! and behold her mind, 
As in the mirror of itself defined : 
Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged; 
Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 
Phis monster when their mistress left off trade, — 
This female dog-star of her little sky, 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; 
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 
And turn thee howUng in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 
And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind. 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate. 
Black as thy will for others would create : 
Till thy hard heart be calcined i^to dust, 
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed. 
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 
Then,when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer. 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
Down to the dust! — and, as thou rott'st away. 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
but for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
lo her thy malice from all ties would tear, 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The «Umax of all scorn, should hang on high. 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers. 
And festering in the infamy of years. 

March 30, 1816. 



CARMINA BYRONIS IN C. ELGIN. 

AsPiCE, quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores, 
Subter Stat nomen, facta superque vide. 

Scote miser ! quamvis nocuisti Palladis aedi, 
Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus. 

PygmaUon statuam pro sponsa arsisse refertur; 
In statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest. 



LINES TO MR. MOORE. 

• he following lines were addressed extempore by Lord Byron 
to his friend Mr. Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy.] 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here 's a double health to thee. 

Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a sm.Ue to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky 's above me, 
He*-** 's a heart for every fate. 
2x2 



Though the ocean roar aroimd me. 
Yet it still shall bear me on-, 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Wer't the last drop in the wel'. 
And I gasping on the brmk. 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

In that water, as this wine. 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — Peace to thine and mme. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! 



"ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR." 

January 22, 1824, 3Iissolongkt. 
'T IS time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move; 
Yet though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love. 

My days are in the yellow leaf ; 

The flowers and fi uits of love are gone : 
The worm, the canker, and the grief. 
Are mine alone! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share. 
But wear the chain. 

But 't is not thus, and 't is not here 

Such thoughts should shake my soul ; noi «»•♦• 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, an^^ the field, 
Glory and Greece around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece, — she is awake!) 

Awake, my spirit! think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unvvortny manhood ! Unto thee. 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live f 

The land of honourable aealh 
Is here — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath! 

Seek out, iess often sought than found, 
A soldier's grave — for thee ihe best; 
Then look around, and choose thy ^roiin<i. 
And take thy rest. 



( 542 ) 



aetter 

rj,Q *•??** ****** Qjj 

THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES 

ON 

THE LIFE AND "WRITINGS OF POPE. 



I'll play at Bowls with the sun and moon. 

OLD SONG. 
My mither 's auld, sir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in 
speaking to my Leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit 
(as I ken naebody likes it if they could help themsells). 

TALES OF MY LANDLORD, Old Mortality, vol. n 



LETTER. 



Ravenna, February 1th, 1821. 
Dear Sir, 

In the different pamphlets which you have had the 
goodness to send ine, on the Pope and Bowles' contro- 
versy, I perceive that my name is occasionally introduc- 
ed by both parties. INIr. Bowles refers more than once to 
what he is pleased to consider " a remarkable circum- 
stance," not only m his letter to Mr. Campbell, but in 
his reply to the Quarterly. The Quarterly also and Mr. 
Gilchrist have conferred on me the dangerous honour of 
a quotation ; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kmd 
of appeal to me personally, by saymg, "Lord Byron, 
if he remembers the circumstance, will witness — {wit- 
ness IS ITALIC, an ominous character for a testimony 
at present.) 

I shall not avail myself of a " non mi ricordo" even 
after so long a residence in Italy ; — I do " remember 
the circumstance" — and have no reluctance to relate it 
(since called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance 
of time and the impression of intervening events will 
peimitme. In the year 1812, more than three years 
aficr the pubhcation of " English Bards and Scotch 
Roviewers," I had the honour of meeting Mr. Bowles 
in the house of our venerable host of" Human Life, etc." 
the last Argonaut of Classic English poetry, and the 
Nestor of our inferior race of living poets. Mr. Bowles 
calls this " soon after" the publication ; but to me three 
years appear a considerable segment of the immortaUty 
of a modern poem. I recollect nothing of " the rest of 
the company going into another room" — nor, though I 
well remember the topography of our host's elegant and 
classically-furnished mansion, could I swear to the very 
room where the conversation occurred, though the 
" taking dovjn the poem" seems to fix it m the library. 
Had it been " taken wp," it would probably have been 
m the drawmg-room. I presume also that the " re- 
Tiarkable circumstance" took place after dinner, as I 
conceive that neither Mr. Bowles's pohteness nor appe- 
tite would have allowed him to detain " the rest of the 
company" standing round their chairs in the *' other 
room" while we were discussing "the Woods of Ma- 
de ira" instead of circulating its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's 
" good-humo'.ir" I have a full and not ungrateful recol- 
5ectioii ; as also of his gentlemanly manners and agree- 
able conversation. I speak of the ivhole, and not of par- 
'iculpr> ; for whether he did or did not use the precise 
^•o»-ds priPteJ in the pamphlet, 1 cannot say, nor could 



he with accuracy. Of "the tone of seriousness" I cer 
tainly recollect nothing : on the contrary, I thought Mr. 
Bowles rather disposed to treat the subject lightly; for 
he said (I have no objection to be contradicted if incor- 
rect) that some of his good-natured friends had come lo 
him and exclaimed, " Eh ! Bowles ! how came you to 
make the Woods of Madeira," etc. etc. and that he had 
been at some pains and pulling down of the poem to 
convince them that he had never made " the Woods" 
do any thing of the kmd. He was right, and / was 
wrong, and have been wrong still up to this acknow- 
ledgment ; for I ought to have looked twice before I 
wrote that which involved an inaccuracy capable of giv- 
ing pain. The fact was, that although I had certainly 
before read " the Spirit of Discovery," I took the quo- 
tation from the review. But the mistake was mine, and 
not the rei'ieio's, which quoted the passage correctly 
enough, I believe. I blundered — God knows how — into 
attributing the tremors of the lovers to the " Woods of 
Madeira," by which they were surrounded. And I 
hereby do fully and freely declare and asseverate, that 
the Woods did not tremble to a kiss, and that the lovers 
did. I quote from memory — 

A kiss 

Stole on the list'ning silence, etc. etc. 

They (the lovers) trembled, even as if the power, etc. 

And if I had been aware that this declaration would 
have been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr. 
Bowles, I should not have waited nine years to make it, 
notwithstanding that " English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers" had been suppressed some time previously to 
my meeting him at Mr. Rogers's. Our worthy host 
might indeed have told him as much, as it was at his 
representation that I suppressed it. A new edition of 
that lampoon was preparing for the press, when Mr. 
Rogers represented to me, that " I was now acquamted 
with many of the persons mentioned in it, and with 
some on terms of intimacy;" and that he knew "one 
family in particular to whom its suppression would 
give pleasure." I did not hesitate one moment ; it was 
cancelled instantly ; and it is no fault of mine that ii 
has ever been republished. When I left England, in 
April, 1816, with no very violent intentions of troubling 
that country again, and amidst scenes of various kinds 
to distract my attention — almost my last act, I believt.. 
was to sign a power of attorney, to yoarself, to prevent 
or suppress any attempts (of which several had been 
made in Ireland) at a republication. It is proper that I 
should state, that the persons with whom I was subse- 
quently acquainted, whose names had occurred in that 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



bA: 



publication, w&ic made my acquaintances at their own 
desire, or tlirough the unsought intervention of others. 
I never, to the best of my knowledge, sought a personal 
introduction to any. Some of them to this day I know 
onl}' by correspondence; and with one of those it was 
begun by myself, in consequence, however, of a polite 
verbal communication from a third person. 

T have dwelt for an instant on these circumstances, 
because it has sometimes been made a subject of bitter 
reproach to me to have endeavoured to suppress that 
satire. I never shrunk, as those who know me know, 
from any personal consequences which could be attached 
10 its publication. Of its subsequent suppression, as I 
possessed the copyright, I was the best judge and the 
sole master. The circumstances which occasioned the 
suppression I have now stated ; of the motives, each 
must judge according to his candour or malignity. Mr. 
Bowles does me the honour to talk of " noble mind,'' 
and "generous magnanimity;" and all this because 
" the circumstance would have been explained had not 
the book been suppressed." I see no "nobility of 
mind" in an act of simple justice ; and I hate the word 
" magnanimity,^^ because I have sometimes seen it ap- 
plied to the gi'ossest of impostors by the greatest of 
fools ; but I would have " explained the circumstance," 
notwithstanding "the suppression of the book," if Mr. 
Bowles had expressed any desire that I should. As the 
" gallant Galbraith" says to " Baillie Jarvie," "Well, the 
devil tike the naistake and all that occasioned it." I 
have had as great and gi-eater mistakes made about me 
personally and poetically, once a month for these last 
ten years, and never cared very much about correcting 
one or the other, at least after the first eight-and-forty 
hours had gone over them. 

I must now, however, say a word or two about Pope, 
jf whom you have my opinion more at large in the un- 
published letter on or to (for I forget which) the editor of 
"Blackwood's EdinburghMagazine;" — and here I doubt 
that Mr. Bowles will not approve of my sentiments. 

Altnough I regret having published " English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers," the part which I regret the least 
is that which regards Mr. Bowles with reference to Pope. 
Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, 
Mr, Kobhouse was desirous that I should express our 
mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. Bowles's edition of 
his works. As I had completed my outline, and felt 
lazy, I requested that he would do so. He did it. His 
fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition 
of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;" and are quite 
as severe and much more poetical than my own in the 
second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to 
it, I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's lines, and replaced them 
with my own, by which the work gained less than Mr. 
Bowles. I have stated this in the preface to the second 
edition. It is many years since I have read that poem ; 
but the Quarterly Review, Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, and 
Mr. Bowles himself, have been so obliging as to refresh 
my memory, and that of the public. I am grieved to 
say, that in reading over those lines, I repent of their 
having so i'ar fallen short of w^hat I meant to express 
upon the subject of Bowles's edition of Pope's Works. 
Mr. Bowles says that " Lord Byron kiiows he does not 
deserve this character." I know no such thing. I have 
met Mr, Bowles occasionally, in the best society in Lon- 
don ; he appeared to me an amiable, well-informed, 
and extremely a.ble man. I desire nothing better than 
to dine in company with such a mannered man every 



day in the week : but of " his character" I know noth- 
ing personallj' ; I can only speak of his manners, and 
these have my warmest approbation. But I never judge 
from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by the 
civilest gentleman I ever met with ; and one of the mild- 
est persons I ever saw was Ali Pacha. Of Mr. Bowles's 
" character " I will not do him the injustice to judge 
from the edition of Pope, if he prepared it heedlessly , 
nor the justice, should it be otherwise, because I woula 
neither become a hterary executioner, nor a personal 
one. Mr. Bowles the individual, and Mr. Bowles the 
editor, appear the two most opposite things imaginable. 

"And he himself one antithesis." 

I won't say " vile," because it is harsh ; nor " mis- 
taken," because it has two syllables too many; but 
every one must fill up the blank as he pleases. 

What I saw of Mr, Bowles increased my surprise antf 
regret that he should ever have lent his talents to such 
a task. If he had been a fool, there would have been 
some excuse for him ; if he had been a needy or a bad 
man, his conduct would have been intelligible ; but he 
is the opposite of all these ; and thinking and feehng as 
I do of Pope, to me the whole thing is unaccountable. 
However, I must call things by their right names. I 
cannot call his edition of Pope a " candid" work ; and 
I still think that there is an affectation of that quality 
not only in those volumes, but in the pamphlets lately 
pubhshed, 

"Why yet he doth deny his prisoners." 

Mr. Bowles says, that "he has seen passages in his 
letters to Martha Blount, which were never published by 
me, and I hope never will be by others ; which are so grosi 
as to imply the grossest licentiousness." Is this fait 
play? It may, or it may not be, that such passages exist ; 
and that Pope, who was not a monk, although a catholic, 
may have occasionally sinned in word and in deed with 
woman in his youth ; but is this a sufficient ground for 
such a sweeping denunciation ? Where is the unmar- 
ried Englishman of a certain rank of life, who (pro- 
vided he has not taken orders) has not to reproach 
himself between the ages of sixteen and thirty with far 
more licentiousness than has ever yet been traced to 
Pope ? Pope lived in the public eye from his youth up- 
wards ; he had all the dunces of his own tune for his 
enemies, and, I am sorry to say, some, who have not 
the apology of dulness foi detraction, since his death ; 
and yet to what do all their accumulated hints and 
charges amount ; — to an equivocal liaison with Martha 
Blount, which might arise as much from his infirmities 
as from his passions ; to a hopeless flirtation with Lady 
Mary W. Montagu ; to a story of Gibber's ; and to two 
or three coarse passages in his works. Who could come 
forth clearer from an invidious inquest on a life of fiftj- 
six years V Why are we to be officiously reminded of 
such passages in his letters, provided that they exist? la 
Mr. Bowles aware to what such rummaging among 
"letters" and "stories" might lead? I have myself seen 
a collection of letters of another eminent, nay, pre- 
eminent, deceased poet, so abominably gross, and elab- 
orately coarse, that I do not believe that they could be 
paralleled in our language. What is more strange, is, 
that some of these are couched as postscripts to nia 
serious and sentimental letters, to which are tacked 
either a piece of prose, or some verses, of the most 
hyperbolical indecency. He himself says, that it " ob- 
scenity (using a much coarser word^ be the sin again*' 



.•i-U 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



>Uc Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot be saved." 
These letters are in existence, and have been seen by 
many besides myself; but would his editor have been 
'' candid'' in even alluding to them? Nothing would 
nave even provoked me, an indifferent spectator, to 
allude to them, but this further attempt at the deprecia- 
tion of Pope. 

What should we say to an editor of Addison, who 
cited the following passage from Walpole's letters to 
George Montagu? "Dr.Young has published anewbook, 
etc. Mr. Addison sent for the young Earl of Warwick, 
as he was dying, to show him in what peace a Christian 
could die ; unluckily he died of brandy : nothing makes 
a Christian die in peace like being maudlin ! but don't 
say this in Gath where you are." Suppose the editor 
introduced it with this preface : " One circumstance is 
mentioned by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was indeed 
Jiagitious. Walpole informs Montagu that Addison sent 
for the young Earl of Warwick, when dying, to show 
him in what peace a Christian could die ; but unluckily 
he died drunk, etc., etc." Now, although there might 
occur on the subsequent, or on the same page, a faint 
show of disbelief, seasoned with the expression of " the 
same candour'' (the same exactly as throughout the 
book), I should say that this editor was either foohsh or 
false to his trust ; such a story ought not to have been 
admitted, except for one brief mark of crushing in- 
dignation, unless it were completely proved. Why the 
words " if true?'" That " if" is not a peace-maker. Why 
talk of " Gibber's testimony" to his licentiousness ? To 
what does this amount? that Pope, when very young, 
was once decoyed by some noblemen and the player to 
a house of carnal recreation. Mr. Bowles was not always 
a clergyman ; and when he was a very young man, was 
he never seduced into as much? If I were in the humour 
for story-tellin^, and relating little anecdotes, I could 
tell a much better story of Mr. Bowles than Gibber's, up- 
on much better authority, viz. that of Mr. Bowles him- 
self. It was not related by him in my presence, but in 
that of a third person, whom Mr. Bowles names oftener 
than once in the course of his replies. This gentleman 
related it to me as a humorous and witty anecdote ; 
and so it was, whatever its other characteristics might be. 
But should I, from a youthful frolic, brand Mr. Bowles 
with a "libertine sort of love," or with "licentious- 
ness ?" is he the less now a pious or a good man for 
not having always been a priest? No such thing ; I am 
willing to believe him a good man, almost as good a man 
as Pope, but no better. 

The truth is, that in these days the grand '■'•primiim 
mobile " of England is cant; cant political, cant poetical, 
cant religious, cant moral ; but always cant, multiplied 
through all the varieties of life. It is the fashion, and 
while it lasts will be too powerful for those who can 
only exist by taking the tone of the time. I say cant, 
because it is a thing of words, without the smallest in- 
fluence upon human actions ; the Enghsh being no 
wiser, no better, and much poorer, and more divided 
amongst themselves, as well as far less moral, than they 
were before the prevalence of this verbal decorum. 
This h)sterical horror of poor Pope's not very well 
ascertained, and never fully proved amours (for even 
Cibber owns that he prevented the somewhat perilous 
adventure in which Pope was embarking) sounds very 
virtuous in a controversial pamphlet; but all men of 
■ tic world who know what hfe is, or at least what it was 



to them in their youth, must laugh at such a ludicrous 
foundation of the charge of a "libertine sort of k ve ;" 
while the more serious will look upon those wno bring 
forward such charges upon an insulated fact, as fanatics 
or hypocrites, perhaps both. The two are sometime.^ 
compounded in a happy mixture. 

Mr. Octavius Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently of 
a " second tumbler of hot white-wine negus.'' What 
does he mean ? Is there any harm in negus ? or is it 
the worse for being hot ? or does Mr. Bowles drink ne- 
gus ? I had a better opinion of him. I hoped thai 
whatever wine he drank was neat ; or at least that, like 
the ordinary in Jonathan Wild, "he preferred punch, 
the rather as there was nothing against it in scripture." 
I should be sorry to beheve that Mr. Bowles was fond 
of negus ; it is such a " candid " liquor, so like a wishy- 
washy compromise between the passion for wine and 
the propriety of water. But different writers have 
divers tastes. Judge Blackstone composed his " Com- 
mentaries" (he was a poet too in his youth), with a 
bottle of port before him. Addison's conversation was 
not good for much till he had taken a similar dose. 
Perhaps the prescription of these two great men was 
not inferior to the very different one of a soi-disant 
poet of this day, who, after wandering amongst the hills, 
returns, goes to bed, and dictates his verses, being fed 
by a by-stander with bread and butter, during the opera- 
tion. 

I now come to Mr. Bowles's " invariable principles of 
poetry." These Mr. Bowles and some of his correspond- 
ents pronounce "unanswerable;" and they are " unan- 
swered," at least by Campbell, who seems to have been 
astounded by the title. The sultan of the lime being, 
offered to ally himself to the king of France, because 
"he hated the word league:" which proves that the 
Padishan understood French. Mr. Campbell has no 
need of my alliance, nor shall I presume to offer it ; 
but I do hate that word " invariable." What is there 
of human, be it poetry, philosophy, wit, wisdom, science, 
power, glory, mind, matter, life or death, which is 
'■'invariable?" Of course I put things divine out of 
the question. Of all arrogant baptisms of a book, this 
title to a pamphlet appears the most complacently con- 
ceited. It is Mr. Campbell'spart to answer the contents 
of this performance, and especially to vindicate his own 
" Ship," which Mr. Bowles most triumphantly proclaims 
to have struck to his very first fire. 

*' Quoth he, there was a Ship ; 

Now let me go, thou gray-hair'd loon. 

Or my staff shall make thee skip ;" 

It is no affairof mine, but having once begun (certainly 
not by my own wish, but called upon by the frequent 
recurrence to my name in the pamphlets), I am Uke an 
Irishman in a "row," "any body's customer." I shall 
therefore say a word or two on the " Ship." 
Mr. Bowles asserts that Campbell's "Ship of the Line" 
derives all its poetry not from " art " but from " nature." 
"Take away the waves, the winds, the sun, etc., etc. one 
will become a stripe of blue bunting ; and the other a 
piece of coarse canvas on three tall poles." Very true; 
take away "the waves," "the winds," and there will 
be no ship at all, not only for poetical, but for any 
other purjjose ; and take away " the sun," and we nuist 
read Mr. Bowles's pamphlet by candle-light. But tiir 
"poetry" of the "Ship" does not depend on "the waves," 
etc.; on the contrary, the » Ship of the Line" confer 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE- 



fis own poetry upon the waters, and heightens theirs. I 
do not deny, that the " waves and winds," and above 
all " the sun," are highly poetical ; we know it to our 
cost, by the many descriptions of them m verse : but 
if the waves bore only t>he foam upon their bosoms, if 
the winds wafted only the sea- weed to the shore, if the 
sun shone neither upon pyramids, nor fleets, nor for- 
tresses, would its beams be equally poetical ? I think 
not : the poetry is at least reciprocal. Take away " the 
ship of the Une" "swinging round" the "calm water," 
and the calm water b ^comes a somewhat monotonous 
thing to look at, parlicu irly if not transparently clear; 
witness the thousands who pass by without looking on 
it at all. What was it attracted the thousands to the 
launch? they might have seen the poetical "calm water," 
at Wapping, or in the " London Dock," or in the Pad- 
dington Canal, or in a horse-pond, or in a slop-basin, or 
in any other vase. They might have heard the poetical 
winds howling through the chinks of a pig-sty, or the 
garret-window ; they might have seen the sun shining 
on a footman's livery, or on a brass warming-pan j but 
could the " calm water," or the " wind," or the " sun," 
make all, or any of these, "poetical'?" I think not. 
Mr. Bowles admits " the ship " to be poetical, but only 
from those accessories : now if they confer poetry so as 
to make one thing poetical, they would make other 
things poetical; the more so, as Mr. Bowles calls a " ship 
of the line" without them, that is to say, its " masts and 
sails and streamers," " blue bunting," and " coarse can- 
vas," and " tall poles." So they are ; and porcelain is 
clay, and man is dust, and flesh is grass, and yet the 
two latter at least are the subjects of much poesy. 

Did Mr. Bowles ever gaze upon the sea? I presume 
hat he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did any painter 
ever paint the sea only^ without the addition of a ship, 
boat, wreck, or some such adjunct ? Is the sea itself a 
more attractive, a more moral, a more poetical object 
with or without a vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing 
monotony ? Is a storm more poetical without a ship ? 
or, in the poem of the Shipwreck, is it the storm or the 
ship which most interests ? both muc/i, undoubtedly ; but 
without the vessel, what should we care for the tempest? 
It would sink into mere descriptive poetry, which in 
itself was never esteemed a high order of that art. 

I look upon myself as entitled to talk of naval mat- 
ters, at least to poets : — with the exception of Walter 
Scott, Moore, and Southey, perhaps (who have been 
voyagers), I have swum more miles than all the rest of 
them together now living ever sailed, and have lived 
for months and months on ship-board ; and during the 
whole period of my life abroad, have scarcely ever passed 
a month out of sight of the ocean : besides being brought 
up from two years till ten on the brink of it, I recol- 
lect, when anchored off Cape Siga?um, in 1810, in an 
English frigate, a violent squall coming on at sunset, so 
•violent as to make us imagine that the ship would part 
cable, or drive from her anchorage. Mr. Hobhouse and 
myself, and some officers, had been up the Dardanelles 
to Abydos, and were just returned in time. The aspect 
of a storm in the Archipelago is as poetical as need be, 
:he sea being particularly short, dashing, and dangerous, 
and the navigation intricate and broken by the isles and 
currents. Cape Sigaeum, the tumuli of the Troad, Lem- 
nos, Tenedos, all added to the associations of the time. 
But what seemed the most *■* jpoeticaP'' of all at the mo- 
ment were the numbers (about two hundred) of Greek 
74 



and Turkish craft, which were obliged to " cut and run '' 
before the wind, from their unsafe anchorage, some fo» 
Tenedos, some for other isles, some for the main, anc* 
some it might be for eternity. The sight of these Uttlr 
scudding vessels, darting over the foam m the twilight, 
now appearing and now disappearing between the waves 
in the cloud of night, with their peculiarly white sails 
(the Levant sails not being of " coarse canvas,^'' but of 
white cotton), skimming along as quickly, but less safely 
than the sea-mews which hovered over them ; their evi- 
dent distress, their reduction to fluttering specks in the 
distance, their crowded succession, their littleness, as 
contending with the giant element, which made our 
stout forty-four's teak timbers (she was built in India) 
creak again ; their aspect and their motion, all struck 
me as something far more " poetical " than the mere 
broad, brawling, shipless sea, and the sullen winds, 
could possibly have been without them. 

The Euxine is a noble sea to look upon, and the port 
of Constantinople the most beautiful of harbours, and 
yet I cannot but think that the twenty sail of the line, 
some of one hundred anr* .orty guns, rendered it more 
" poetical " by day in the sun, and by night perhaps still 
more, for the Turks illuminate their vessels of war in a 
manner the most picturesque — and yet all this is ariiji- 
ciu-'. As for the Euxine, I stood upon the Symplegades 
— I Sfc.od by the broken altar still exposed to the winds 
upon one of them — I felt all the " poctrj/ " of the situa- 
tion, as I repeated the first lines of Medea ; but would 
not that " poetry " have been heightened by \.r,e Argo ? 
It was so even by the appearance of any njorchanl 
vessel arriving from Odessa. But Mr. Bowles says, 
"why bring your ship off the stocks?" for no reason 
that I know, except that ships are built to be launched. 
The water, etc., undoubtedly heightens the poetical 
associations, but it does not make them ; and the ship 
amply repays the obligation : they aid each other ; the 
water is more poetical with the ship — the ship less so 
without the water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, is 
a grand and poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel up- 
wards, wrecked upon the barren sand, is a " poetical" 
object (and Wordsworth, who made a poem about a 
washing-tub and a blind boy, may tell you so as wel 
as I) 3 whilst a long extent of sand and unbroktn water 
without the boat, nould be as like dull prose as any 
pamphlet lately published. 

What makes the poetry in the image of th*" '■'■ maroU 
waste of Tadmor,''^ or Grainger's " Ode to Solitude," 
so much admired by Johnson ? Is it the " marble,''^ or 
the '■'■ waste " the artifcial or the iiatural oh\ectl The 
" waste " is like all other wastes ; but the " Tvarble" ol 
Palmyra makes the poetry of the passage as of the 
place. 

The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole coast 
of Attica, her hills and mountains, Pentelicus, Anches- 
mus, Philopappus, etc., etc., are in themselves poetical, 
and would be so if the name of Athens, of Athenians, 
and her very ruins, were swept from the earth. But 
am I to be told that the "nature" of Attica would De 
more poetical without the "art" of the Acropolis? of 
the Temple of Theseus ? and of the still all Greek anc^ 
glorious monuments of her exquisitely artificial genius.' 
Ask the traveller what strikes him as most poetical, 
the Parthenon, or the rock on which it stands ? Tne 
COLUMNS of Cape Colonna, or the Cape itself? The 
rocks, ai the foot of it, or the recollection that Faicorier'* 



b4Q 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ship was bulged upon them. There are a thousand 
rocks and .-laoes, far more picturesque than those of 
the Arropo'.is and Cai)e Sunium in themselves ; what 
arc lliey to a thousand scenes in the wilder parts of 
(.rrcece, of Asia Minor, Switzerland, or even of Cintra 
in Portugal, or to many scenes of Italy, and the Sierras 
of Spain ? But it is the " ari," the columns, the tem- 
ples, the vviecked vessel, which give them their antique 
and their modern poetry, and not the spots themselves. 
Without them, the spots of earth would be unnoticed 
and unknown ; buried, like Babylon and Nineveh, in 
indistinct confusion, without poetry, as without exist- 
ence : but to whatever spot of earth these ruins were 
transported, if the}'^ were capable of transportation, 
like the obelisk, and the sphinx, and the Memnon's 
head, there they would still exist in the perfection of 
their beauty, and in the pride of their poetry. I opposed, 
and will ever oppose, the robbery of ruins from Athens, 
to instruct the English in sculpture ; but why did I so ? 
The ruins are as poetical in Piccadilly as they were in 
the Parthenon ; but the Parthenon and its rock are less 
so without them. Such is the poetry of art. 

Mr. Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of 
Egypt are poetical, because of " the association with 
boundless deserts," and that a "pyramid of the same 
dimensions" would not be sublime in " Lincoln's Inn 
Fields;" not so poetical, certainly ; but take away the 
" pyramids," and what is the " desert ?" Take away 
Stone-henge from SaUsbury plain, and it is nothbg 
more than Hounslow Heath, or any other uninclosed 
dov/n. It appears to me that St. Peter's, the CoUseum, 
the Pantheon, the Palatine, the Apollo, the Laocoon, 
the Venus di Medicis, the Hercules, the dying Gladiator, 
the INIoses of Michel Angelo, and all the higher works 
of Canova (I have already spoken of those of ancient 
Greece, still extant in that country, or transported to 
England), are as poeiicaZ as Mont Blanc or Mount-ffitna, 
perhaps still more so, as they are direct manifestations 
of mind, and presuppose poetry in their very concep- 
tion ; and have, moreover, as being such, a something 
of actual life, which cannot belong to any part of inani- 
mate nature, unless we adopt the system of Spinosa, 
that the w^orld is the deity. There can be nothing more 
poetica' in its aspect than the city of Venice : does this 
depend upon the sea, or the canals ? — 

" The dirt and sea-weed whence proud Venice rose !" 

Is it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
prison, or the " Bridge of Sighs " which connects them, 
that render it poetical ? Is it the " Canal Grande," or 
the Rialto which arches it, the churches which tower 
over it, the palaces which line, and the gondolas which 
j^lide over the waters, that render this city more poetical 
than Rome itself? Mr. Bowles will say, perhaps, that 
the Rialto is but marble, the palaces and churches only 
stone, and the gondolas a " coarse " black cloth, thrown 
over some planks of carved wood, with a shining bit of 
htnlasiically-formed iron at the prow, ^^vnthout" the 
water. And I tell him that without these the water 
ivould be nothing but a clay-coloured ditch, and who- 
<<vcr says the contrary, deserves to be at the bottom of 
rbal where Pope's heroes are embraced by the mud- 
iiympns. There would be nothing to make the canal 
iri Venice more poetical man that of Paddington, were 
• t not for, the artificial adjuncts above mentioned, al- 
I'lougti it is a p*;vfect.v natural canal, formed by the 



sea, and the innumerable islands which cdnstitute the 
site of this extraordinary city. 

The very Cloacse of Tarquin at Rome are as po- 
etical as Richmond Hill ; many will think more so. 
Take away Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven 
hills, in the nature of Evander's time ; let Mr. Bowles, 
or Mr. Wordsworth, or Mr. Southey, or any of the 
other " naturals," make a poem upon them, and then 
see which is most poetical, their production, or tlie 
commonest guide-book which tells you the road from 
St. Peter's to the Coliseum, and informs you what you 
will see by the way. The ground interests in Virgil, 
because it wiU be Rome, and not because it is Evan 
der's rural domain. 

Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into his 
service, in answer to a remark of Mr. Campbell's, that 
" Homer was a great describer of works of art." Mr. 
Bowles contends, that all his great power, even in this, 
depends upon their connexion with nature. The 
" shield of Achilles derives its poetical interest from the 
subjects described on it." And from what does the spear 
of Achilles derive its interest ? and the helmet and the 
mail worn by Patroclus, and the celestial armour, and 
the very brazen greaves of the well-booted Greeks ? Is 
it solely from the legs, and the back, and the breast, and 
the human body, which they inclose ? In that case, it 
would have been more poetical to have made them fight 
naked ; and Gulley and Gregson, as being nearer to a 
state of nature, are more poetical, boxing in a pair of 
drawers, than Hector and Achilles in radiant armour, 
and with heroic weapons. 

Instead of the clash of helmets, and the rushing of 
chariots, and the whizzing of spears, and the glancing 
of swords, and the cleaving of shields, and the piercing 
of breast-plates, why not represent the Greeks and 
Trojans hke two savage tribes, tugging and tearing, and 
kicking, and biting, and gnashing, foaming, grinning, and 
gouging, in all the poetry of martial nature, unencum- 
bered with gross, prosaic, artificial arms, an equal su- 
perfluity to the natural warrior, and his natural poet ? 
Is there any thing unpoetical in Ulysses striking the 
horses of Rhesus with his bow (having forgotten his 
thong), or would Mr. Bowles have had him kick them 
with his foot, or smack them with his hand, as being 
more unsophisticated ? 

In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than 
his " shapeless sculpture?" Of sculpture in general, 
it may be observed, that it is more poetical than nature 
itself, inasmuch as it represents and bodies forth that 
ideal beauty and sublimity which is never to be found 
in actual nature. This at least is the general opinion 
but, always excepting the Venus di Medicis, I differ 
from that opinion, at least as far as regards female 
beaut)', for the head of Lady Charlemont (when I first 
saw her, nine years ago) seemed to possess all that 
sculpture could require for its ideal. I recollect seeing 
something of the same kind in the head of an Albanian 
girl, who was actually employed in mending a road in 
the mountains, and in some Greek, and one or two 
Italian faces. But of sublimity, I have never seen any 
thing in human nature at all to approach the expression 
of sculpture, either in the Apollo, the Moses, or other 
of the sterner works of ancient or modern art. 

Let us examine a little further this "babble of green 
fields," and of bare nature in general, as superior to 
artificial imagery, for the ooetical purposes of the fine 



LETTER ON BOWLEStS STRICTURES ON POPE. 



547 



arts, la landscape painting, the great artist does not 
give you a literal copy of a country, but he invents and 
composes one. Nature, in her actual aspect, does not 
furnish him with such existing scenes as he requires. 
Even where he presents you with some famous city, or 
celebrated scene from mountain or other nature, it 
must be taken from some particular point of view, and 
with such hght, and shade, and distance, etc. as serve 
not only to heighten its beauties, but to shadow its de- 
formities. The poetry of nature alone, exactly as she 
appears, is not sufficient to bear him out. The very sky 
of his painting is not the portrait of the sky of nature ; 
it is a composition of different skies, observed at dif- 
ferent times, and not the whole copied from any particu- 
lar day. And why ? Because Nature is not lavish of 
her beauties ; they are w^idely scattered, and occasionally 
displayed, to be selected with care, and gathered with 
difficulty. 

Of sculpture I have just spoken. It is the great 
scope of the sculptor to heighten nature into heroic 
beauty, i. e. in plain English, to surpass his model. 
When Canova forms a statue, he takes a limb from one, 
a hand from another, a feature from a third, and a 
shape, it may be, from a fourth, probably at the same 
time improving upon all, as the Greek of old did in 
embodying his Venus. 

Ask a portrait painter to describe his agonies in ac- 
commodating the faces with which Nature and his sit- 
ters have crowded his painting-room to the principles of 
his art ; with the exception of perhaps ten faces in as 
many millions, there is not one which he can venture to 
give without shading much and adding more. Nature 
exactly, simply, barely nature, will make no great artist 
of any kind, and least of all a poet — the most artificial, 
perhaps, of all artists in his very essence. With regard 
to natural imagery, the poets are obliged to take some of 
their best illustrations from art. You say that " a foun- 
tain is as clear or clearer than glass" to express its 
beauty — 

" O fons BandusisB, splendidior vitro !'* 
In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Caesar is 
displayed, but so also is his mantle — 

' You all do know this mantle,^'' etc. 

'Look : in this place ran Cassius' dagger through." 

If the poet had said that Cassius had run his Jist 
through the rent of the mantle, it would have had more 
of Mr. Bowles's " nature" to help it ; but the artificial 
dagger is more poetical than any natural hand without it. 
In the sublime of sacred poetry, " Who is this that cometh 
from Edom? with dyed garments from Bozrah?" Would 
" the comer" be poetical without his " dyed garments ?" 
which strike and startle the spectator, and identify the 
approaching object. 

The mother of Sisera is represented listening for the 
" wheels of his chariot." Solomon, in his Song, com- 
lares the nose of his beloved to a " tower," which to us 
appears an eastern exaggeration. If he had said, that 
her statue was Hke that of " a tower," it would have 
een as poetical as if he had compared her to a tree. 
" The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex," 
"s an instance of an artificial image to express a moral 
superiority. But Solomon, it is probable, did not com- 
pare his beloved's nose to a " tower" on account of its 



length, but of its symmetry; and, making allowanos Tcr? 
eastern hyperbole and the difficulty of finding a discreor 
image for a female nose in nature, it is perhaps as gooa 
a figure as any other. 

Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes 
What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble objec 
of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, thei 
dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial sym 
metry of their position and movements. A Highland 
er's plaid, a Mussulman's turban, and a Roman to"a 
are more poetical than the tattooed or untattooed but- 
tocks of a New-Sandwich savage, although they were 
described by WilUam Wordsworth himself like the 
" idiot in his glory." 

I have seen as many mountains as most men, and more 
fleets than the generality of landsmen : and, to my mind^ 
a large convoy, with a few sail of the line to conduct 
them, is as noble and as poetical a prospect as all that 
inanimate nature can produce. I prefer the " mast of 
some great ammiral," with all its tackle, to the Scotch fir 
or the Alpine tannen : and think that more poetry has been 
made out of it. In what does the infinite superiority of 
" Falconer's Shipwreck," over all other shipwrecks, con- 
sist ? In his admirable application of the terms of his 
art ; in a poet-sailor's description of the sailor's fate. 
These very terms, by his application, make the strength 
and reality of his poem. Why ? because he was a poet, 
and in the hands of a poet art will not be found less 
ornamental than nature. It is precisely in general na- 
ture, and in stepping out of his element, that Falconer 
fails ; where he digresses to speak of ancient Greece, 
and " such branches of learning." 

In Dyer's Grongar Hill, upon which his fame rests, 
the very appearance of Nature herse'f is moralized mto 
an artificial image : 

" Thus is Nature's vesture vvrojght. 
To instruct our wandering thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay. 
To disperse our cares away." 
And here also we have the telescope, the niisuse of 
which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so iri« 
umphant over Mr. Campbell: 

"So we mistake the future's face, 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass." 
And here a word, en passant, to Mr. Campbell* 
*' As yon summits, soft and fair 
Clad in colours of the air, 
Which, to those who journey near. 
Barren, brown, and rough appear. 
Still we tread the sa-me coarse way — 
The present's still a cloudy day." 
Is not this the original of the far-famed 

" 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue ?" 

To return once more to the sea. Let any one look on 
the long wall of Malamocco, which curbs the Adriatic, 
and pronounce between the sea and its master. Surely 
that Roman work (I mean Roman in conception and 
performance), which says to the ocean, " :.hus far shah 
thou come, and no further," and is obeyed, is not less 
sublime and poetical than the angry waves which vainly 
break beneath it. 

Mr. Bowles makes the chief part of a «hip's poesy de- 
pend on the " wind:" then why is a ship unuer sai nioro 
poetical than a hog in a high wind ? The hog is all 
nature, the ship is all art, " coarse canvas," " blue 
bunting," and "tall poles;" both are violontlv acir^i 



548 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



upon by the wind, tossed here and there, to and fro ; 
iind yet nothing but excess of hunger could make me 
look upon the pig as the more poetical of the two, and 
then only in the shape of a griskin. 

WiW Mr. Bowles toll us that the poetry of an aqueduct 
consists in the water which it conveys ? Let him look 
on that of Justinian, on those of Rome, Constantinople, 
Lisbon, and Elvas, or even at the remains of that in 
Attica. 

We are asked " what makes the venerable towers of 
Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, than the 
tower for the manufactory of patent shot, surrounded 
by the same scenery?" I will answer — tha architecture. 
Turn Westminster Abbey, or Saint Paul's, into a powder 
magazine, their poetry, as objects, remains the same ; 
the Parthenon was actually converted into one by the 
■rurks, during Morosini's Venetian siege, and part of it 
destroved in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled 
their steeds in Worcester cathedral ; was it less poeti- 
cal, as ail object, than before ? Ask a foreigner on' his ap- 
proach to London, what strikes him as the most poetical 
of the towers before him ; he will point out St. Paul's and 
Westminster Abbey, without, perhaps, knowing the 
names or associations of either, and pass over the "tower 
for patent shot," not that, for any thing he knows to 
the contrary, it might not be the mausoleum of a mon- 
arch, or a Waterloo column, or a Trafalgar monument, 
but because its architecture is obviously inferior. 

To the question, " whether the descriptior. of a game 
of cards be as poetical, supposing the execution of the 
artists equal, as a description of a walk in a forest?" 
it may be answered, that the materials are certainly 
not equal; but that "the arti.tt,''^ who has rendered 
the " game of cards poetical," is by far the greater of 
the two. But all this " ordering" of poets is purely ar 
bitrary on the part of Mr. Bowles. There may or may 
not be, in fact, different " orders" of poetry, but the 
poet is always ranked according to his execution, and 
not according to his branch of the art. 

Tragedy is one of the highest presumed orders, 
Hughes has written a tragedy, and a very successful one : 
Fenton another ; and Pope none. Did any man, how- 
over, — will even Mr. Bowles himself rank Hughes and 
Fenton as poets above Pope ? Was even Addison (the 
author of Cato), or Rowe (one of the higher order of 
dramatists, as far as success goes), or Young, or even 
Otway and Southerne, ever raised for a moment to th 
same rank with Pope in the estimation of the reader 
or the critic, before his death or since ? If Mr. Bowles 
will contend for classifications of this kmd, let him re- 
collect that descriptive poetry has been ranked as among 
the lowest branches of the art, and description as a mere 
ornament, but which should never form " the subject' 
of a poem. The Italians, with the most poetical lan^ 
guage, and the most fastidious taste in Europe, possess 
now live great poets, they say, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
Passo, and lastly Alfieri ; and whom do they esteem one 
jf the highest of these, and some of them the very 
highest? Petrarcn, the sonnetteer ; it is true that some of 
his Canzoni are not less esteemed, but not more; who 
ever dreams of his Latin Africa? 

Were Petrarch to be ranked according to the " order" 
of nis compositions, where would the best of sonnets 
place him? with Dante and the others? No: but, as I 
lavu 'o6<ore said, the ooet who executes best is the high- 



est, whatever his department, and will ever be so rated 
in the world's esteem. 

Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he 
stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher ; 
it is the corner-stone of his glory ; withouf it, his odes 
would be insufficient for his fame. The leprcciation 
of Pope is partly founded upon a false idea of the 
dignity of his order of poetry, to which he has partly 
contributed by the ingenuous boast, 

" That not in fancy's maze he wander'd lon». 
But stooped to truth, and moralized his song." 
He should have written " rose to truth." In my mind, 
the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as the high 
est of all earthly objects must be moral truth. Rehgion 
does not make a part of my subject ; it is something 
beyond human powers, and has failed in all human 
hands except Milton's and Dante's, and even Dante's 
powers are involved in the delineation of human pas- 
sions, though in supernatural circumstances. What 
made Socrates the greatest of men ? His moral truth — 
his ethics. What proved Jesus Christ the Son of God 
hardly less than his miracles? His moral precepts. 
And if ethics have made a philosopher the first of men, 
and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his gospel 
by the Deity himself, are we to be told that ethical 
poetry, or didactic poetry, or by whatever name you 
term it, whose object is to make men better and wiser, 
is not the very Jirst order of poetry ? and are we to be 
told this loo by one of the priesthood? It requires 
more mind, more wisdom, more power, than all the 
" forests" that e\er were " walked" for their " descrip- 
tion," and all the epics that ever were founded upon 
fields of battle. The Georgics are indisputably, and, 
I believe, undisputedly^ even a finer poem than the 
iEneid. Virgil knew this ; he did not order them to be 
burnt. 

" The proper study of mankind is man." 

It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress upon 
what they call " imagination" and " invention," the two 
commonest of qualities : an Irish peasant, with a little 
whiskey in his head, will imagine and invent more 
than would furnish forth a modern poem. If Lucretius 
had not been spoiled by the Epicurean system, we 
should have had a far superior poem to any now in 
existence. As mere poetry, it is the first of Latin 
poems. What then has ruined it? His ethics. Pope 
has not this defect ; his moral is as pure as his poetry 
is glorious. In speaking of artificial objects, I have 
omitted to touch upon one which I will now menti'^n. 
Cannon may be presumed to be a? highly poetical as 
art can make her objects. Mr. Bowles will, perhaps, 
tell me that this is because ihey resemble that grand 
natural article of sound in heaven, and simile upon 
earth — thunder. I shall be told triumphantly, that 
Milton made sad work with his artillery, when he armed 
his devils therewithal. He did so ; and this artificial 
object must have had much of the sublime to attract 
his attention for such a conflict. He has made an 
absurd use of it ; but the absurdity consists net Ik 
using cannon against the angels of God, but any 
material weapon. The thunder of the clouds would 
have been as ridiculous and vain in the hands of the 
devils, asihe " villanous saltpetre •" the anj^tl^ were as 
impervious to the one as to the other. 1 i,e thunder- 
bolts became sublime in the hands of the Ahn^ght/, no« 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



5^9 



as such, but because he deigns to use them as a means 
of repelling the rebel spirits ; but no one can attribute 
their defeat to this grand piece of natural electricity : 
the Almighty willed, and they fell ; his word would have 
been enough ; and Milton is as absurd (and in fact, 
blasphemous) in putting material lightnings into the 
^ands of the Godhead as in giving him hands at all. 

The artillery of the demons was but the first step of 
his mistake, the thunder the next, and it is a step lower. 
It would have been fit for Jove, but not for Jehovah. 
The subject altogether was essentially unpoetical ; he 
has made more of it than another could, but it is be- 
yond him and all men. 

In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that 
Pope " envied Phillips" because he quizzed his pastorals 
in the Guardian in that most admirable model of 
irony, his paper on the subject. If there was any 
thing enviable about Phillips, it could hardly be his 
oastorals. They were despicable, and Pope expressed 
his contempt. If Mr. Fitzgerald published a volume of 
sonnets, or a "Spirit of Discovery," or a " Missionary," 
and Mr. Bowles wrote in any periodical journal an 
ironical paper upon them, would this be " envy ?" The 
autiiors of the " Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the 
sixteen or twenty " first living poets " of the day ; but 
do they "envy" them ? " Envy" writhes, it don't laugh. 
The authors of the " Rejected Addresses " may despise 
some, but they can hardly " envy" any of the persons 
whom they have parodied : and Pope could have no 
more envied Phillips than he did Welsted, or Theobalds, 
or Smedley, or any other given hero of the Dunciad. 
He could not have envied him, even had he himself noi 
been the greatest poet of his age. Did Mr. Ings " envy'''* 
Mr. Phillips, when he asked him, " how came your 
Pyirhus to drive oxen, and say, I am goaded on by 
love?" This question silenced poor Phillips ; but it no 
more proceeded from " envy " than did Pope's ridicule. 
Did he envy Swift ? Did he envy Bolingbroke ? Did he 
envy Gay the unparalleled success of his " Beggar's 
Opera?" We may be answered that these were his 
friends — true ; but does friendship prevent envy ? 
Study the first woman you meet with, or the first scrib- 
bler, let Mr. Bowles himself (whom I acquit fully of 
such an odious quality) study some of his own poetical 
intimates : the most envious man I ever heard of is a 
poet, and a high one ; besides it is an universal passion. 
Goldsmith envied not only the puppets for their danc- 
ing, and broke his shins in the attempt at rivalry, but 
was seriously angry because two pretty women re- 
ceived more attention than he did. This is envy • but 
where does Pope show a sign of the passion ? In that 
case, Dryden envied the hero of his Mac Flecknoe. Mr. 
Bowles compares, when and where he can. Pope with 
Cowper (the same Cowper whom, in his edition of Pope, 
He laughs at for his attachment to an old woman, Mrs. 
Unvvin : search and you will find it ; I remember the 
passage, though not the page); in particular he re- 
q-uotes Cowper's Dutch delineation of a wood, drawn 
up like a seedsman's catalogue,' with an affected imi- 



tation of Mi'ton's style, as burlesque as the " Splendid 
Shilling." These two writers (for Cowper is no poet) 
come into comparison in one great work — the trans- 
lation of Homer. Now, with all the great, and mam 
fest, and manifold, and reproved, and acknowledged, 
and uncontroverted fauhs of Pope's translation, anc 
all the scholarship, and pains, and time, and trouble, and 
blank verse of the other, who can ever read Cowper ? 
and who will ever lay down Pope, unless for the 
original ? Pope's was " not Homer, it was Spondanus ;" 
but Cowper's is not Homer, either, it is not even Cow- 
per. As a child I first read Pope's Homer with a rap. 
ture which no subsequent work could ever afford ; and 
children are not the worst judges of their own lan- 
guage. As a boy I read Homer in the original, as we 
have all done, some of us by force, and a few by 
favour ; under which description I come is nothing to 
the purpose, it is enough that I read him. As a man 
I have tried to read Cowper's version, and I found it 
impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded ? 

And now that we have heard the Catholic reproached 
with envy, duphcity, licentiousness, avarice — what was 
the Calvinist? He attempted the most atrocious of 
crimes in the Christian code, viz. suicide — and why? 
Because he was to be examined whether he was fit for 
an office which he seems to wish to have made a sine- 
cure. His connexion with Mrs. Unwin was pure enough, 
for the old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
why then is the infirm and then elderly Pope to be re- 
proved for his connexion with Martha Blount? Cow- 
per was the almoner of Mrs. Throgmorton ; but Pope's 
charities were his own, and they were noble and ex- 
tensive, far beyond his fortune's warrant. Pope was 



1 1 wii; submit to Mr. Bowles's own judgment a passage 
from another poem of Cowper's, to be compared with the 
same writer's Sylvan Sampler. In the .ines to Mary, 
'■ Thy needles, once a shining store. 
For my sake restless heretofore. 
Now rust disused, and shine no more. 

My Mary," 
2 Z 



contain a simple, household, "indoor," artificial, and ordi 
nary image. I refer Mr. Bowles to the stanza, and ask if theso 
three lines about "needles'' are not worth all the boasted 
twaddling about trees, so triumphantly re-quoted 7 and yet 
in fact what do they convey ? A homely collection of images 
and ideas associated with the darning of stockmgs, and the 
hemming of shirts, and the mending of breeches ; but will any 
one deny that they are eminently poetical and pathetic as ad- 
dressed by Cowper to his nurse? The trash of trees reminds 
me of a saying of Sheridan's. Soon after the "Rejected Ad- 
dress " scene, in 1812, I met Sheridan. In the course of din- 
ner, he said, " Lord Byron, did you know that amongst tho 
writers of addresses was Whjtbread himself 7" I answered 
by an inquiry of what sort of an address he had made. " Of 
that," replied Sheridan, " I remember little, except that there 
was a phasnix in it." " A phoenix ! ! Weil, how did he de- 
scribe it 1" " Like a poulterer," answered Sheridan • " it waa 
green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not let us off 
for a single feather." And just such as this poulterer's ac- 
count of a phcenix, is Cowper's stick-picker's detail of a wood, 
with all its petty minutiae of this, that, and the other. 

One more poetical instance of the power of art, and even 
its superiority over nature, in poetry, and I have done : — the 
bust of J]ntinous ! Is there any thing in nature like this 
marble, excepting the Venus? Can there be more poetry 
gathered into existence than in that wonderful creation of per- 
fect beauty 1 But the poetry of this bust is in no respect de- 
rived from nature, nor from any association of moral exalted 
ness ; for what is there in common with moral n iture and the 
male minion of Adrian 1 The very execution is not natural 
but 5?<pe7--natural, or rather super-artificial, for nature has 
never done so much. 

Away, then, with this cant a'oout nature and "invanaoie 
principles of poetry!" A great artist will make a block of 
stone as sublime as a mountain, and a good poet can imbue 
a pack of cards with more poetry than inhabits the forests ol 
America. It is the business and the proof of a poet to give 
the lie to the iroverb. and sometimes to " make a silken purse 
out of a sow^s car;" and to conclude with another homely 
proverb, " a good workman will not find fault with his tc»»I« 



550 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the Uilerant yet steadv adherent of the most bigoted of 
sects , and Co^v-per tlie most bigoted and despondent 
sectaiy that ever anticipated danmation to himself or 
others. Is this harsh ? I know it is, and I do not assert 
rt as my opinion of Cowper persnnally, but to show 
what might be said, with just as great an appearance of 
truth and candour, as all the odium which has been 
accumulated upon Pope in similar speculations. Cow- 
per was a good man, and lived at a fortunate time for 
his works. 

Mr. Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon his 
own arguments, has, in person or by proxy, brought 
forward the names ofSoulhey and Moore. Mr. Southey 
"agrees entirely with Mr. Bowles in his invariable 
principles of p«ctry." The least that Mr. Bowles can 
do in return is to approve the " invariable principles of 
Mr. Southey." I should have thought that the word 
" invariable^' might have stuck in Southey's throat, hke 
Macbeth's "Amen!" I am sure it did in mine, and I 
am not the least consistent of the two, at least as a 
voter. Moore {et tu Brute !) also approves, and a Mr. 
J. Scott. There is a letter also of two Unes from a 
gentleman in asterisks, who, it seems, is a poet of "the 
highest rank" — who can this be? not my friend. Sir 
Walter, surely. Campbell it can't be ; Rogers it won't 
be. 

"You have hit the vail in tlie head, and**** [Pope, I 
presume] on the head also." 

I remain, yours, affectionately, 

(Four jisterisks.) 

And in asterisks let him remain. Whoever this person 
ma}' be, he deserves, for such a judgment of Midas, 
that " the nail " which Mr. Bowles has hit in the 
head should be driven through his own ears ; I am 
sure chat they are long enough. 

The attention of the poetical populace of the present 
day to obtain an ostracism against Pope is as easily ac- 
counted for as the Athenian's shell against Aristides ; 
they are tired of hearing him always called " the Just." 
They are also fighting for life ; for if he maintains his 
station, they will reach their own falling. They have 
raised a mosque by the side of a Grecian temple of the 
purest architecture ; and, more barbarous than the 
barbarians from whose practice I have borrowed the 
figure, they are not contented with their own grotesque 
edifice, unless they destroy the prior and purely beauti- 
ful fabric which preceded, and which shames them and 
tiieirs for ever and ever. I shall be told that amongst 
those I haveheen (or it maybe still am) conspicuous — 
tiue, and I am ashamed of it. I have been amongst 
the builders of this Babel, attended by a confusion of 
tongues, but never amongst the envious destroyers of 
the classic temple of our predecessor. I have loved 
and honoured the fame and name of that illustrious 
and unrivalled man, far more than my own paltry 
renown, and the trashy jingle of the crowd of 
*• schools " and upstarts, who pretend to rival, or even 
surpass h;m. Sooner than a single leaf should be 
-orn from his laurel, it were better that all which these 
nieu, and that I, as one of their set, have ever written, 
should 

" Liiiu trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
Biitiinge the rails of Bedlam or Solio !'* 

Tricre are those who will believe this, and those who 



will not. You, sir, know how far I am sincere, and 
whether my opinion, not only in the short work in- 
tended for publication, and in private letters which 
can never be published, has or has not been the same. 
I look upon this as the declining age of Enghsh poetry; 
no regard for others, no selfish feeling, can prevent me 
from seeing this, and expressing the truth. There can 
be no worse sign for the taste of the times than the 
depreciation of Pope. It would be better to receive for 
proof Mr. Cobbet's rough but strong attack upon 
Shakspeare and Milton, than to allow this smooth and 
"candid" undermining of the reputation of the most 
perfect of our poets and the purest of our morahsts. 
Of his power in the passions, in description, in the 
mock-heroic, I leave otl.-ers to descant. I take him on 
his strong ground, as an ethical poet; in the formei 
none excel, in the mock-heroic and the ethical none 
equal him ; and, in my mmd, the latter is the highest 
of all poetry, because it does that in verse, which the 
greatest of men have wished to accomphsh in prose. 
If the essence of poetry must be a lie, throw it to the 
dogs, or banish it from your republic, as Plato would 
have done. He who can reconcile poetry with truth 
and wisdom, is the only true "poei" in its real sense; 
"the maker,'''' " the creator'''' — why must this mean the 
" liar," the " feigner," " the tale-teller?" A man may 
make and create better things than these. 

I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a 
poet as Shakspeare and Milton, though his enemy, 
Warton, places him immediately under them. I would 
no more say this than I would assert in the mosque 
(once St. Sophia's), that Socrates w-as a »reater man 
than Mahomet. But if I say that he is very near them, 
it is no more than has been asserted of Burns, who is 
supposed 

"To rival all but Shakspeare's name below." 
I say nothing against this opinion. But of what " order, ^'' 
according to the poetical aristocracy,are Burns's poems? 
These are his opus magnum, " Tam O'Shanter," a tale; 
the " Cotter's Saturday Night," a descriptive sketch ; 
some others in the same style ; the rest are songs. So 
much for the rank of his productions; the rank of 
Burns is the very first of his art. Of Pope I have ex- 
pressed my opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect 
which the present attempts at poetry have had upon . 
our literature. If any great national or natural con- 
vulsion could or should overwhelm your country, in 
such sort as to sweep Great Britain from the kingdoms 
of the earth, and leave only that, after all the most 
living of human things, a dead language, to be studied 
and read, and imitated, by the wise of future and far 
generations upon foreign shores ; if your literature 
should become the learning of mankind, divested of 
party cabals, temporary fashions, and national pride 
and prejudice ; an Englishman, anxious that the pos- 
terity of strangers should know that there had been 
such a thing as a British Epic and Tragedv, might wish 
for the preservation of Shakspeare and Milton ; but 
the surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, 
and let the rest sink with the people. He is the moral 
poet of all civilization, and, as such, let us hope that 
he will one day be the national poet of mankind. He. 
is the only poet that never shocks ; the only poet whose 
fauUlessncss has been made his reproach. Cast your 
eye over his productions; consider iheir extent, and 



LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



i>5i 



contemplate their variety: — pastoral, passion, mock- 
neroic, translation, satire, ethics, — all excellent, and 
often pcrfert. If his great charm be his melody, how 
comes it that foreigners adore him even in their diluted 
translation ? But I have made this letter too long. 
Give my compliments to Mr. Bowles. 

Yours ever, very truly, 

BYRON. 
To .7. Murray, Esq. 

Por,t scTiptum. — Long as this letter has grown, I 
find it necessary to append a postscript, — if possible, a 
short one. Mr. Bowles denies that he has accused Pope 
of " a sordid money-getting passion ;" but he adds "if 
I had ever done so, I should be glad to find any testl 
mony that might show me he was not so." This testi' 
mony he may find to his heart's content in Spence 
and elsewhere. First, there is Martha Blount, who, 
Mr. Bowles charitably says, " probably thought he did 
not save enough for her as legatee." Whatever she 
thought upon this point, her words are in Pope's favour. 
Then there is Alderman Barber — see Spence's Anec- 
dotes. There is Pope's cold answer to Halifax, when he 
proposed a pension ; his behaviour to Craggs and to 
Addison upon like occasions ; and his own two lines — 

"And, thanks to Homer, since I live and thrive, 
Indebted to no prince or peer alive — " 

v^ritten when princes would have been proud to pen- 
sion, and peers to promote him, and when the whole 
army of dunces were in array against him, and would 
have been but too happy to deprive him of this boast 
of independence. But there is something a little more 
serious in Mr. Bowles's declaration, that he '■'■would have 
spoken" of his "noble generosity to the outcast, Richard 
Savage," and other instances of a compassionate and 
generous heart, '■'•had they occurred to his recollectionwhen 
hi wrote.'''' What ! is it come to this ? Does Mr. Bowles 
sit down to write a minute and laboured life and edition 
of a great poet ? Does he anatomize his character, 
moral and poetical ? Does he present us with his faults 
and with his foibles ? Does he sneer at his feelings, and 
doubt of his sincerity? Does he unfold his vanity and 
duplicity? and then omit the good qualities which 
might, in part, have "covered this multitude of sins?" 
and then plead that '■'•they did not occur to his recollection?''^ 
Is this the frame of mind and of memory with which the 
iilustrious dead are to be approached? If Mr. Bowles, 
who must have had access to all the means of refreshing 
his memory, did not recollect these facts, he is unfit for 
his task ; but if he did recollect, and omit them, I know 
not what he is fit for, but I know what would be fit 
ior him. Is the plea of " not recollecting" such promi- 
nent facts to be admitted ? Mr. Bowles has been at a 
.oublic school, and, as I have been publicly educated 
a.so, I can sympathize, with his predilection. When we 
were in the third form even, had we pleaded on the 
Monday morinng, that we had not brought up the Satur- 
day's exercise because " we had forgotten it," what 
•.vould have been the reply? And is an excuse, which 
woidd not be pardoned to a school-boy, to pass current 
m a matter which so nearly concerns the fame of the 
first poet of his age, if not of his country? If Mr. Bowles 
so readily forgets the virtues of others, why complain 
so grievously that others have a better memory for his 
»wn faults ? They are but the faults of an author ; 



while the virtues he omitted from his catalogue are 
essential to the justice due to a man. 

Mr. Bowles appears, indeed, to be susceptible beyond 
the privilege of authorship. There is a plaintive dedica- 
tion to Mr. Gifford, in which he is made responsible for 
all the articles of the Quarterly. Mr. Southey, it seems, 
"the most able and eloquent writer in that Review," 
approves of Mr. Bowles's publication. Now, it seems 
to me the isore impartial, that, notwithstanding that the 
great writer of the Quarterly entertains opinions op- 
posite to the able article on Spence, nevertheless that 
essay was permitted to appear. Is a review to be de- 
voted to the opinions of any one man ? Must it not 
vary according to circumstances, and according to the 
subjects to be criticised? I fear that v/riters must take 
the sweets and bitters of the public journals as they 
occur, and an author of so long a standing as Mr. Bowles 
might have become accustomed to such incidents ; he 
might be angi-y, but not astonished. I have been re- 
viewed in the Quarterly almost as often as Mr. Bowles, 
and have had as {)leasant things said, and some as un- 
pleasant, as could well be pronounced. In the review 
of" The Fall of Jerusalem," it is stated that I have de- 
voted " my powers, etc. to the worst parts of mani- 
cheism," which, being interp;eted, means that I wor- 
ship the devil. Now, I have neither written a reply, nor 
complained to Gifford. I believe that I observed in a 
letter to you, that I thought " that the critic might have 
praised Milman without finding it necessary to abuse 
me ;" but did I not add at the same time, or soon after 
(apropos, of the note in the book of travels), that I 
would not, if it were even in my power, have a single 
line cancelled on my account in that nor in any other 
publication ? — Of course, I reserve to myself the privi- 
lege of response when necessary. Mr. Bowles seems in 
a whimsical state about the article on Spence. You 
know very well that I am not in your confidence, nor 
in that of the conductor of the journal. The moment 
I saw that article, I was morally certain that I knew the 
author " by his style." You will tell me that I do not 
know him : that is all as it should be ; keep the secret, 
so shall I, though no one has ever entrusted it to me= 
He is not the person whom Mr. Bowles denounces. Mr. 
Bowdes's extreme sensibility reminds me of a circiLm- 
stance which occurred on board of a frigate, in which 
I was a passenger and guest of the captain's for a con- 
siderable time. The surgeon on board, a very gentle 
manly young man, and remarkably able in his profes 
sion, worea t/;i,g-. Upon this ornament he was extremely 
tenacious. As naval jests are sometimes a little rough, 
his brother-officers made occasional allusions to this 
delicate appendage to the doctor's person. One day a 
young lieutenant, in the course of a facetious discus- 
sion, said, "Suppose, now, doctor, I should take otT 
your hat.'''' " Sir," replied the doctor, "I shaii lalk no 
longer with you ; you grow scurrilous.''' He would not 
even admit so near an approach as to the hat which 
protected it. In like manner, if any body approaches 
Mr. Bowles's laurels, even in his outside capacity of an 
editor, "they grow scurrilous.'''' You say that you are 
about to prepare an edition of Pope ; you cannot d . 
better for your own credit as a publisher, nor for the t(;- 
demption of Pope IromMr. Bowles, and of the pubbc 
taste from rapid degeneracy. 



( 552 ) 



June 17, 1816. 

ly the year 17 — , having for some time determined 
on a journey through countries not hitherto much fre 
fjuented by travellers, I set out, accompanied by a friend 
wnom I shall designate by the name of Augustus Dar- 
veU. He was a few years my elder, and a man of con- 
siderable fortune and ancient family — advantages which 
an extensive capacity prevented him alike from under- 
valuing or overrating. Some peculiar circumstances in 
his private history had rendered him to me an object 
of attention, of interest, and even of regard, which 
neither the reserve of his manners, nor occasional indi- 
cations of an inquietude at times nearly approaching to 
alienation of mind, could extinguish. 

I was yet young in life, which I had begun early ; 
but my intimacy with him was of a recent date : we had 
been educated at the same schools and university ; but 
his progress through these had preceded mine, and he 
had been deeply initiated into what is called the world, 
while I was yet in my noviciate. While thus engaged, I 
had heard much both of his past and present life ; and, 
although in these accounts there were many and irre- 
concilable contradictions, I could still gather from the 
whole that he was a being of no common order, and 
one who, whatever pains he might take to avoid re- 
mark, would still be remarkable. I had cultivated his 
acquaintance subsequently, and endeavoured to obtain 
his friendship, but this last appeared to be unattainable; 
whatever affections he might have possessed seemed 
now, some to have been extinguished, and others to be 
concentred : that his feelings were acute, I had suffi- 
cient opportunities of observing; for, although he could 
control, he could not altogether disguise them : still he 
had a power of giving to one passion the appearance of 
another in such a manner that it was difficult to define 
the nature of what was working within him ; and the 
expressions of his features would vary so rapidly, though 
slightly, that it was useless to trace them to their sources. 
It was evident that he was a prey to some cureless dis- 
quiet ; but whether it arose from ambition, love, re- 
morse, grief, from one or all of these, or merely from 
a morbid temperament akin to disease, I could not dis- 
cover : there were circumstances alleged which might 
have justified the application to each of these causes ; 
but, as I have before said, these were so contradictory 
and contradicted, that none could be fixed upon with 
accuracy. Where there is mystery, it is generally sup- 
posed that there must also be evil ; I know not how this 
may be, but in him there certainly was the one, though 
I could not ascertain the extent of the otlier — and felt 
loth, as far as regarded himself, to beUeve in its exist- 
ence. My advances were received w ith sufficient cold- 
ness ; but I was young, and not easily discouraged, and 
at length &j"ceeded in obtaining, to a certain degree, 
ihat commonplace intercourse and moderate confidence 
of ronimon and every-day concerns, created and ce- 
.nenif.J by similarity of pursuit and frequency of meet- 
mg, which is called intimacy, or friendship, according to 
the Ideas of him who uses those words to express them. 

Uarvell had already travelled extensively, and to him 
I iiD«i applied for information with regard to the con- 



duct of my intended journey. It was my secret wis;i 
that he might be prevailed on to accompany me : it was 
also a probable hope, founded upon the shadowy rest- 
lessness which I had observed in him, and to which the 
animation which he appeared to feel on such subjects, 
and his apparent indifference to all by which he was 
more immediately surrounded, gave fresh strength. 
This wish I first hinted, and then expressed : his answer, 
though I had partly expected it, gave me all the pleasure 
of surprise — he consented ; and, after the requisite ar- 
rangements, we commenced our voyages. After journey- 
ing through various countries of the south of Europe, 
our attention was turned towards the east, according 
to our original destination ; and it was in my progress 
through these regions that the incident occurred upon 
which will turn what I may have to relate. 

The constitution of Darvell, which -must, from his 
appearance, have been in early hfe more than usually 
robust, had been for some lime gradually giving way, 
without the intervention of any apparent disease : he 
had neither cough nor hectic, yet he became daily 
more enfeebled: his habits were temperate, and lie 
neither declined nor complained of fatigue, yet he was 
evidently wasting away : he became more and more 
silent and sleepless, and at length so seriously altered, 
that my alarm grew proportionate to what I conceived 
to be his danger. 

We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on 
an excursion to the ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, from 
which I endeavoured to dissuade him, in his present 
state of indisposition — but in vain : there appeared to be 
an oppression on his mind, and a solemnity in his man- 
ner, which ill corresponded with his eagerness to proceed 
on what I regarded as a mere party of pleasure, littk 
suited to a valetudinarian ; but I opposed him no longer 
— and in a few days we set off together, accompanied 
only by a serrugee and a single janizary. 

We had passed half-way towards the remains of 
Ephesus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs ol 
Smyrna, and were entering upon that wild and ten- 
antless track through the marshes and defiles which 
lead to the few huts yet lingering over the broken col- 
umns of Diana — the roofless walls of expelled Christi- 
anity, and the still more recent but complete desolation 
of abandoned mosques — when the sudden and rapid ill- 
ness of my companion obliged us to halt at a Turkish 
cemetery, the turbaned tombstones of which were the 
sole indication that human life had ever been a sojourner 
in this wilderness. The onlj' caravansera we had seen 
was left some hours behind us ; not a vestige of a town 
or even cottage, was within sight or hope, and this " city 
of the dead" appeared to be the sole refuge for my un- 
fortunate friend, who seemed on the verge of becoming 
the last of its inhabitants. 

In this situation, I looked round for a place where h© 
might most conveniently repose : — contrary to the usual 
aspect of Mahometan burial-grounds, the cypresses 
were in this few in number, and these thinly scattereii 
over its extent : the tombstones were mostly fallen, and 
worn with age : upon one of the most considerable .. f 
these, and beneath one of the most soreadm^ trAe? 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



55: 



Parvell supported himself, in a half-reclining posture, 
with great difficulty. He asked for water. I had some 
doubts of our being able to find any, and prepared to go 
m search of it with hesitating despondency — but he 
desired me to remain ; and, turning to Suleiman, our 
•.anizary, who stood by us smoking with great tranquil- 
hty, he said, " Suleiman, verbana su," {i, e. bring some 
water), and went on describing the spot where it was to 
be found with great minuteness, at a small well for 
camels, a few hundred yards to the right : the janizary 
obeyed, i said to Darvell, " How did you know this V" 
— He replied, " From our situation ; you must perceive 
'Jiat this place was once inhabited, and could not have 
(Seen so without springs : I have also been here before." 

" You have been here before i — How came you never 
Lo mention this to me ? and what could you be doing in 
a place where no one would remain a moment longer 
than they could help it?" 

To this question I received no answer. In the mean- 
rune, Suleiman returned with the water, leaving the ser- 
rugee and the horses at the fountain. The quenching of 
his thirst had the appearance of reviving him for a mo- 
ment ; and I conceived hopes of his being able to pro- 
ceed, or at least to return, and I urged the attempt. He 
was silent — and appeared to be collecting his spirits for 
an effort to speak. He began. 

" This is the end of my journey, and of my hfe — I 
came here to die : but I have a request to make, a 
command — for such my last words must be. — You will 
observe it?" 

" Most certainly ; but have better hopes." 

" I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this — conceal my 
death from every human being." 

"I hope there will be no occasion ; that you will re- 
ce)ver, and " 

" Peace ! it must be so : promise this." 

"I do.-' 

" Swear it by all ih^t" He here dictated an oath 

of great solemnity. 

" There is no occasion for this — 1 will observe your 
request ; and to doubt me is " 

" It cannot be helped, you must swear." 

I look the oath : it appeared to relieve him. He re- 
moved a seal-ring from his finger, on which were some 
Arabic characters, and presented it to me. He pro- 
ceeded — 

" On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely 
(what month you please, but this must be the day), you 
must fling this ring into the salt springs which run into 
the Bay of Eleusis : the day after, at the same hour, 
you must repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, 
and wait one hour." 



" Why ?" 

"You will see." 

" The ninth day of the month, you say?" 

" The ninth." 

As I observed that the present was the ninth day 0= 
the month, his countenance changed, and he paused. As 
he sate, evidently becoming more feeble, a stork, with a 
snake in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us ; 
and, without devouring her prey, appeared to be sted- 
fastly regarding us. I know not what impelled me to 
drive it away, but the attempt was useless ; she made a 
few circles in the air, and returned exactly to the same 
spot. Darvell pointed to it, and smiled : he spoke — I 
know not whether to himself or to me — but the words 
were only, " 'T is well !" 

" What is well ? what do you mean ? " 

" No matter : you must bury me here this evening, 
and exactly where that bird is now perched. You know 
the rest of my injunctions." 

He then proceeded to give me several directions as 
to the manner in which his death might be best con 
cealed. After these were finished, he exclaimed, " You 
perceive that bird?" 

" Certainly." 

" And the serpent writhing in her beak ?" 

" Doubtless : there is nothing uncommon m it ; it is 
her natural prey. But it is odd that she does not de- 
vour it." 

He smiled in a ghastly manner, and said, ."aintly, " It 
is not yet time!" As he spoke, the stork flew away. 
My eyes followed it for a moment ; it could hardly be 
longer than ten might be counted. I fell Darvell's 
weight, as it were, increase upon my shoulder, and, 
turning to look upon his face, perceived that he was 
dead ! 

I was shocked with the sudden certainty which i,Duld 
not be mistaken — his countenance in a few minutes 
became nearly black. I should have attributed so rapid 
a change to poison, had I not been aware that he had 
no opportunity of receiving it unperceived. The day 
was declining, the body was rapidly altering, and 
nothing remained but to fulfil his request. With the aid 
of Suleiman's ataghan and my own sabre, we scooped 
a shallow grave upon the spot which Darvell had indi 
cated: the earth easily gave way, having already received 
some Mahometan tenant. We dug as deeply as the 
time permitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon all 
that remained of the singular being so lately departed, 
we cut a few sods of greener turf from the less withered 
soil around us, and laid them upon his sepulchre. 

Between astonishment and grief, I was tearless. 



^avliamtntuvn ^ptttfttu. 



IJEBATE ON THE FRAME-WORK BILL, IN THE 
HOUSE OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. 

The order of the day for the second reading of this 
bill being read, 

LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) ad- 
dressed their lordships, as follows : 
2z2 75 



My Lords — the subject now submitted to your lora- 
ships for the first time, though new ..u the House, is b> 
no means new to the country. I believe it had occu 
pied the serious thoughts of all descriptions of persons, 
long before its introduction to the notice of that (egis- 
lature, whose interference alone could be of real srr 
vice. As a person in some degree connected wiili ihr 



554 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



sufferintr county, though a stranger not only to this 
Htjuso in general, but to almost every individual whose 
attention I presume to solicit, I must claim some por- 
tion of your lordships' indulgence whilst I offer a few 
observations on a question in which 
deef)ly interested. 

To enter into any detail of the riots would be super- 
fluous : the House is already aware that every outrage 
short of actual bloodshed has been perpetrated, and 
that the proprietors of the frames obnoxious to the 
rioters, and all persons supposed to be connected 
with them, have been liable to insult and violence. 
During the short time I recently passed in Nottingham- 
shire, not twelve hours elajjsed witiiout some fresh act 
of violence ; and on the day I left the county, I was in- 
formed that forty frames had been broken the preced- 
ing evening, as usual, without resistance and without 
detection. 

Such was then the state of that county, and such I 
have reason to believe it to be at this moment. But 
whilst these outrages must be admitted to exist to an 
alarming extent, it cannot be denied that they have 
arisen from circumstances of the most unparalleled 
distress. The perseverance of these miserable men in 



chinery, in that state ofour commerce which the couit* 
try once boasted, might have been beneficial to the 
master without being detrimental to the servant ; yet, 
in the present situation ofour manufactures, rotting in 
confess myself warehouses, without a prospect of exportation, wilij 
the demand for work and workmen equally diminished ; 
frames of this description tend materially to aggravate 
the distress and discontent of the disaopointed sufferers. 
But the real cause of these distresses and consequent 
disturbances hes deeper. When we are told that these 
men are leagued together not only for the destruction 
of their own comfort, but of their very means of sub- 
sistence, can we forget that it is the bitter policy, the 
destructive warfare of the last eighteen yearfi, which 
has ilestroj'ed their comfort, your comfort, all m(!n's 
comfort? That policy which, originating with " great 
statesmen now no more," has survived the dead to be- 
come a curse on the living, unto the third and fourth 
generation ! These men never destroyed their looms 
till they were become useless, worse than useless ; till 
they were become actual impediments to their exertions 
in obtaining their daily bread. Can you, then, wonder 
that in times like these, when bankruptcy, convicted 
fraud, and imputed felony are found in a station not 



lute want could have driven a large, and once honest 
and industrious, body of the people, into the commission 
of excesses so hazardous to themselves, their families, 
and the community. At the lime to which I allude, 
the town and county were burthened with large detach- 
ments of the military ; the police was in motion, the 



iheir proceedings, tends to prove that nothing but abso- far beneath that of your lordships, the lowest, though 

once most useful portion of the people, should forget 
their duty in their distresses, and become only, less 
guilty than one of their representatives V But while the 
exalted offender can find means to baffle the law, new 
capital punishments must be devised, new snares of 
death must be spread for the wretched mechanic, who 



magistrates assembled; yet all the movements, civil and lis famished into guilt. These men were wilhng to d»g, 



military, had led to — nothing. Not a single instance 
had occurred of the apprehension of any real delinquent 
actually taken in the fact, against whom there existed 
legal evidence sufficient for conviction. But the police, 
however useless, were by no means idle : several noto- 
rious dehnquents had been detected ; men, liable to 
conviction, on the clearest evidence, of the capital crime 
of poverty : men who had been nefariously guilty of 
lawfully begetting several children, whom, thanks to 
(he times ! they were unable to maintain. Considerable 
injury has been done to the proprietors of the improved 
frames. These machines were to them an .idvantage, 
inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employing 
a number of workmen, who were left in consequence 
to starve. By the adoption of one species of frame in 
particular, one man performed the work of many, and 
the superfluous labourers were thrown out of employ- 
ment. Yet it is to be observed, that the work thus 
executed was inferior in quality ; not marketable at 
home, and merely hurried over with a view to exporta- 
tion. It was called, in the cant of the trade, by the 
name of " Spider work." The rejected workmen, in 
the blindness of their ignorance, instead of rejoicing at 
these improvements in arts so beneficial to mankind, 
(onceived themselves to be sacrificed to improvements 
in mechanism. In the foolishness of their hearts they 
imagined, that the maintenance and well-doing of the 
industrious poor were objects of greater consequence 
:han the enrichment of a few individuals by any im- 
provement, in the implements of trade, which threw 
ihft workmen out of employment, and rendered the 
l.-.h.iurer unwortny of his hire. And it must be con- 
l«»Gse(l Uia although the adoption of the enlarged ma- 



but the spade was in other hands : they were not 
ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve them: 
their own means of subsistence were cut olf, al) other 
employments j)re-occupied, and their excesses, however 
to be deplored and condemned, can hardly be subject 
of surprise. 

It has been stated that the persons in the temporary 
possession of frames connive at their destruction ; if 
this be proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such 
material accessaries to the crime should be principals 
in the punishmen-t. But I did hope, that any measure 
proposed by his majesty's government, for your lord- 
ship's decision, would have had conciliation for its basis; 
or, if that were hopeless, that some previous inquiry, 
some deliberation would have been deemed requisite; 
not that we should have been called at once with- 
out examination, and without cause, to pass sentences 
by wholesale, and sign death-warrants blindfold. Bui 
admitting that these men had no cause of complaint ; 
that the grievances of them and their employers were 
alike groundless ; that they deserved the worst ; what 
inefficiency, what imbecihty has been evinced in the 
method chosen to reduce them ! Why were the military 
called out to be made a mockery of, if Jiey were to be 
called out at all ? As far as the difference of seasons 
would permit, they have merely parodied the summer 
campaign of Major Sturgeon; and, indeed, the whole 
proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the mode oi 
those of the Mayor and Corporation of Garratt. — Such 
marchings and counter-marchings ! from Nottingham 
to Bulhvell, from Bullwell to Banford, from Banford to 
Mansfield ! and when at length the detachmetits arrived 
at their destinations, in all " the pnde, pomp, aid cir- 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



55S 



rumstance of glorious war," they came just in time to 
witness the mischief which had been done, and ascertain 
r.he escape of the perpetrators, to collect the " spotia 
bpima''^ in the fragments of broken frames, and return 
to their quarters amidst the derision of old women, and 
the hootings of children. Now, though in a free country. 
It were to be wished that our military should never be too 
formidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see the policy of 
placing them in situations where they can only be made 
ridiculous. As the sword is the worst argument that can 
be used, so should it be the last. In this instance it has 
been the first; but providentially as yet only in the 
scabbard. The present measure will, indeed, pluck it 
from the sheath ; yet had projjer meetings been held in 
the earlier stages of these riots, — had the grievances of 
these men and their masters (for they also had their 
grievances) been fairly weighed and justly examined, I 
do think that means might have been devised to restore 
these workmen to their avocations, and tranquillity to 
the county. At present the county suffers from the 
double infliction of an idle military, and a starving 
population. In what state of apathy have we been 
plunged so long, that now for the first time the House 
has been officially apprized of these disturbances ! All 
this has been transacting within 130 miles of London, 
and yet we, " good easy men, have deemed full sure 
our greatness was a-ripening," and have sat down to 
enjoy our foreign triumphs in the midst of domestic 
calamity. But all the cities you have taken, all the 
armies which have retreated before your leaders, are 
but paltry subjects of self-congratulation, if your land 
divides against itself, and your dragoons and your exe- 
cutioners must be let loose against your fellow-citizens. 
— You call these men a mob, desperate, dangerous, 
and ignorant ; and seem to think that the only way to 
quiet the " Bellua multorum capitum. " is to lop off a 
few of its superfluous heads. But even a mob may 
be better reduced to reason by a mixture of concilia- 
tion and firnmess, than by additional irritation and re- 
doubled penalties. Are we aware of our obligations 
to a mob ? It is the mob that labour in your fields, and 
serve in your houses, — that man your navy, and recruit 
your army, — that have enabl^id you to defy all the 
world, and can also defy you when neglect and ca- 
lamity have driven them to despair. You may call the 
people a mob ; but do not forget, that a mob too often 
speaks the sentiments of the people. And here I 
must remark, with what alacrity you are accustomed 
to fly to the succour of your distressed allies, leaving 
the distressed of your own country to the care of Provi- 
dence, or — the parish. When the Portuguese suffered 
under the retreat of the French, every arm was stretch- 
ed out, every hand was opened, from the rich man's 
largess to the widow's mite, all was bestowed to enable 
[hem to rebuild their villages and replenish their gran- 
aries. And at this moment, when thousands of misguided 
out most unfortunate fellow-countrymen are strug- 
gling with the extremes of hardships and hunger, as 
/our charity began abroad, it should end at home. A 
•nuch less sum, a tithe of the bounty bestowed on Por- 
uigal, even if those men (which I cannot admit with- 
out inquiry) could not have been restored to their em- 
ployments, would have rendered unnecessary the ten- 
der mercies of the bayonet and the gibbet. But 
doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims to 
nAlniii a orosnect of domestic relief; though never did 



such objects demand it. I have traversed the seat of 
war in the Peninsula, I have been in some of the most 
oppressed provinces of Turkey, but never under the 
most despotic of infidel governments did I behold such 
squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return 
in the very heart of a Christian country. And what 
are your remedies ? After months of inaction, and 
months of action worse than inactivity, at length comes 
forth the grand specific, the never-failing nostrum of 
all state physicians, from the days of Draco to the 
present time. After feehng the pulse and shaking the 
head over the patient, prescribing the usual course of 
warm water and bleeding, the warm water of your 
maukish police, and ths lancets of your military, these 
convulsions must termi late in death, the sure .consum- 
mation of the prescriptions of all political Sangrados. 
Setting aside the palpable injustice, and the certain 
inefficiency of the bill, are there not capital punish- 
ments sufficient in your statutes ? Is there not blood 
enough upon your penal code, that more must be poured 
forth to ascend to Heaven and testify against you ? 
How will you carry the bill into effect? Can you com- 
mit a whole county to their own prison? Will you 
erect a gibbet in every field, and hang up men like 
scarecrows? or will you proceed (as you must, to 
bring this measure into effect) by decimation ? place 
the country under martial law ? depojiulate and lay 
waste all around you ? and restore Sherwood Forest 
as an acceptable gift to the crown, in its former condi- 
tion of a royal chase and an asylum for outlaws ? Are 
these the remedies for a starving and desperate popu- 
lace ? Will the famished wretch who has braved your 
bayonets, be appalled by your gibbets ? When death 
is a relief, and the only relief it appears that you will 
afford him, will he be dragooned into tranquillity ? 
VVill that which could not be effected by your grena- 
diers be accomplished by your executioners? If you 
proceed by the forms of law, where is your evidence ? 
Those who have refused to impeach their accomplices, 
when transportation only was the punishment, will 
hardly be tempted to witness against them when death 
is the penalty. With all due deference to the noble 
lords opposite, I think a little investigation, some pre- 
vious inquiry, would induce even them to change their 
purpose. That most favourite state measure, so mar 
vellously efficacious in many and recent instance?, 
temporizing, would not be without its advantages in 
this. When a proposal is made to emancipate or re- 
lieve, you hesitate, you deliberate for years, you tem- 
porize and tamper with the minds of men ; but a death- 
bill must be passed off hand, without a thought of the 
consequences. Sure I am, from what I have heard, 
and from what I have seen, that to pass the Bill under 
all the existing circumstances, without inquiry, without 
deliberation, would only be to add injustice to irritation 
and barbarity to neglect. The framers of such a Bill 
must be content to inherit the honours of that Athc,- 
nian lawgiver whose edicts were said to be written nol 
ink, but in blood. But suppose it past ; suppose 
one of these men, as I have seen them, — meagre wiih 
famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life whidi 
your lordships are perhaps about to value at some- 
thing less than the price of a stocking-frame —sup- 
pose this man surrounded by the children for whom 
he is unable to procure bread at the hazard of hA ex- 
istence, about to be torn *or ev er from a family v/hicp 



556 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ne lately supportrd in peaceful industry, and which it 
IS not h R fauii thnt he can no longer so support — sup- 
oose thib .nan, and there are ten thousand such from 
whom you may select your victims, dragged into 
court, to be tried for this new offence, by this new 
law ; still, there are two things wanting to convict 
and condemn him ; and these are, in my opinion, — 
twelve Butchers for a Jury, and a Jefferies for a 
Judge ! 



DEBATE ON THE EARL OF DONOUGHMORE'S 
MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE ON THE ROMAN 
CATHOLIC CLALMS, APRIL 21, 1812. 

Mv Lords — the question before the House has been 
so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and never 
perhaps more ably than on this mght, that it would 
be difficult to adduce new arguments for or against it. 
But with each discussion difficulties have been removed, 
objections have been canvassed and refuted, and some 
of the former opponents of Catholic Emancipation 
have at length conceded to the expediency of relievmg 
the petitioners. In conceding thus much, however, a 
new objection is started ; it is not the time, say they, 
or it is an improper time, or there is time enough yet. 
In some degree I concur with those who say it is not the 
time exactly ; that time is passed ; better had it been 
for the country, that the CathoUcs possessed at this 
moment their proportion of our privileges, that their 
nobles hold their due weight in our councils, than thai 
we should be assembled to discuss their claims. It had 
indeed been better 

"Non tempore tali 
Cogere concilium cum mums obsidet hostis." 

The enemy is without, and distress within. It is too late 
to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in de- 
fence of things more important than the mere ceremo- 
nies of reUgion. It is indeed singular, that we are called 
together to deliberate, not on the God we adore, for m 
that we are agreed ; not about the king we obey, for to 
him we are loyal ; but how far a difference in the 
ceremonials of worship, how far believing not too little, 
but too much (the worst that can be imputed to the 
Catholics), how far too much devotion to their God, 
may incapacitate our fellow-subjects from effectually 
serving their king. 

Much has been said, within and without doors, of 
Church and State, and although those venerable words 
have been too often prostituted to the most despica- 
ble of party purposes, we cannot hear them too often ; 
all, I presume, are the advocates of Church and State, 
the Church of Christ, and the State of Great Britain ; 
but not a state of exclusion and despotism ; not an in- 
tolerant church ; not a church militant, which renders 
rtseli liable to the very objection urged against the 
Romish communion, and in a greater degree, for the 
(Catholic merely withholds its spiritual benediction 
(and even that is doubtful), but our church, or rather 
our churchmen, not only refuse to the Catholic their 
spiritual grace, but all temporal blessings whatsoever. 
I' wa:j an observation of the great Lord Peterborough, 
made within these walls, or wi'hm the walls where the 
liOrds then assembled, that he was for a " parliamen- 



The interval of a century has not weakened the fon o 
of the remark. It is indeed time that we should leave 
off these petty cavils on frivolous points, these Liln- 
putian sophistries, whether our " eggs art best brokei 
at the broad or narrow end." 

The opponents of the Catholics may be divided intt 
two classes ; those who assert that the Catholics have 
too much already, and those who allege that the lov^ei 
orders, at least, have nothing more to require. We nr*' 
told by the former, that the Catholics never will be con- 
tented: by the latter, that they are already too nappy. 
The last paradox is sufficiently refuted by the present, 
as by all past petitions: it might as well be said, thai 
the negroes did not desire to be emancipated — but this 
is an unfortunate comparison, for you have already de- 
livered them out of the house of bondage without an) 
petition on their part, but many from their task-masters 
to a contrary effect ; and for myself, when I consider 
this, I pity the Cathohc peasantry for not having the 
good fortune to be born black. But the Catholics are 
contented, or at least ought to be, as we are told : I shall 
therefore proceed to touch on a few of those circum- 
stances which so marvellously contribute to their ex- 
ceeding contentment. They are not allowed the fret- 
exercise of their religion in the regular army ; the 
Catholic soldier cannot absent himself from the service 
of the Protestant clergyman, and, unless he is quartered 
in Ireland, or in Spain, where can he find eligible op- 
portunities of attending his own? The permission of 
Catholic chaplains to the Irish militia regiments was 
conceded as a special favour, and not till after years ol 
remonstrance, although an act, passed in 1793, estab- 
lished it as a right. But are the Catholics properly 
protected in Ireland? Can the church purchase a rood 
of land whereon to erect a chapel ? No ; all the places 
of worship are built on leases of trust or sufferance from 
the laity, easily broken and often betrayed. The moment 
any irregular wish, any casual caprice of the benevolent 
landlord meets with opposition, the doors are barred 
against the congregation. This has happened continual- 
ly, but in no instance more glaringly, than at the town 
of Newtown Barry, in the county ot Wexford. The 
C atholics, enjoying no regular chapel, as a temporary ex- 
pedient, hired two barns, which, being thrown mto one, 
served for public worship. At this time, there was quar- 
tered opposite to the spot an officer, whose mind appears 
to have been deeply imbued with those prejudices which 
the Protestant petitions, now on the table, prove tc 
have been fortunately eradicated from the more ratit.na! 
portion of the people; and when the Catholics were 
assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in peace ami good- 
will towards men, for the worship of their God and 
yours, they found the chapel door closed, and wert- 
told that if they did not immediately retire (and they 
were told this by a yeoman officer and a magistrate), 
the riot act should be read, and the assembly dispersed 
at the point of the bayonet ! This was complained of to 
the middle-man of government, the secretary at the 
Castle in 1806, and the answer was (in lieu of redress) 
that he would cause a letter to be written to the colonel, 
to prevent, if possible, the recurrence of similar dis 
turbancps. Upon this fact, no very great stress need be 
laid ; but it tends to prove that while the Catholic church 
has not power to purchase land for its chapels to stand 
u])on, the laws for its i)rotection are of no avail. In the 



Uiry king and a parliamentary constitution, but not a 

•»:irliamentary God and u narliamenlary religion.'' mean time, the Catholics are at the mercy of ^ver 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



55 



'♦pelting pf3Uy officer," who may choose to play his 
" fantastic tricks before high heaven," to insult his God, 
and injure his fellow-creatures. 

Every school-boy, any foot-boy (such have held com- 
missions in our service), any foot -boy who can exchange 
his shoulder-knot for an epaulet, may perform all this 
and more against the Catholic, by virtue of that very 
authority delegated to him by his sovereign, for the 
express purpose of defending his fellow-subjects to the 
last drop of his blood, without discrimination or dis- 
tinction between Catholic and Protestant. 

Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial by 
jury ? They have not ; they never can have until they 
are permitted to share the privilege of serving as 
sheriffs and under-sheriffs. Of this a striking example 
occurred at the last Enniskillen assizes. A yeoman was 
arraigned for the murder of a Catholic named Mac- 
vournagh : three respectable uncontradicted witnesses 
deposed that they saw the prisoner load, lake aim, fire 
at, and kill the said Macvournagh. This was properly 
commented on by the judge ; but, to the astonishment 
of the bar, and indignation of the court, the Protestant 
juiy accjuitted the accused. So glaring was the par- 
tiality, that Mr. Justice Osborne felt it his duty to bind 
over the acquitted, but not absolved assassin, in large 
recognizances, thus for a time taking away his Ucense 
to kill Catholics. 

Are the very laws passed in their favour observed ? 
They are rendered nugatory in trivial as in serious cases. 
By a late act. Catholic chaplains arc permitted in jails, 
but in Fermanagh county the grand jury lately persisted 
in presenting a suspended clergyman for the office, 
thereby evading the statute, notwithstanding the most 
pressing remonstrances of a most respectable magistrate, 
named Fletcher, to the contrary. Such is law, such is 
justice, for the happy, free, contented Catholic! 

It has been asked in another place, why do not the 
rich Catholics en^ow foundations for the education of 
the priesthood ? Why do you not permit them to do so ? 
Why are all such bequests subject to the interference, 
the vexatious, arbitrary, peculating interference of the 
Orange commissioners for charitable donations ? 

As to Maynooth college, in no instance, except at the 
time of its foundation, when a noble Lord (Camden), at 
the head of the Irish administration, did appear to in- 
terest himself in its advancement; and during the cov- 
ernn\ent of a noble Duke (Bedford), who, Uke his 
ancestors, has ever been the friend of freedom and 
mankind, and who has not so far adopted the selfish 
policy of the day as to exclude the Catholics from the 
number of his fellow- creatures ; with these exceptions, 
in no instance has that institution been properly en- 
couraged. There was indeed a cime when the Catholic 
■lergy were conciliated, while the Union was pending, 
"liat Union which could not be carried without them, 
svhile their assistance was requisite in procuring ad- 
dresses from the Catholic counties ; then they were 
cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and given to 
anderstaiid that " the Union would do every thing ;" 
•»ut, the moment it was passed, they were driven back 
*viih contempt into their former obscurity. 

In the contempt pursued towards Maynooth college, 
rverv thing is done to irritate and perplex — every thing 
•s divie to efface the slightest impression of gratitude 
firotu ihc Catholic mind] the very hay made upon the 



lawn, the fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allowed, 
must be paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true, 
this economy in miniature cannot be sufficiently com- 
mended, particularly at a time when only the insect 
defaulters of the Treasury, your Hunts and your 
Chinnerys, when only these " gilded bugs" can escape 
the microscopic eye of ministers. But when you come 
forward session after session, as your paltry pittance is 
wrung from you with wrangling and reluctance, to 
boast of your liberality, well might the Catholia ex- 
claim, in the words of Prior, — 

"To John I owe some obligation. 

But John unluckily thinks fit 
To publish it to all the nation, 

So John and I are more than quit." 

Some persons have compared the Catholics to the 
beggar m Gil Bias. Who made them beggars ? Who are 
enriched with the spoils of their ancestors ? And cannot 
you relieve the beggar when your fathers have made 
him such ? If you are disposed to relieve him at all, 
cannot you do it without flinging your farthings in his 
face ? As a contrast, however, to this beggarly benev- 
olence, let us look at the Protestant Charter Schools; 
to them you have lately granted 41,000/. : thus are they 
supported, and how are ihey recruited? Montesquieu 
observes, on the English constitution, that the model 
may be found in Tacitus, where the historian describes 
the policy of the Germans, and adds, " this beautiful 
system was taken from the woods ;" so in speaking of 
the charter schools, it may be observed, that this beau 
tiful system was taken from the gypsies. These schools 
are recruited in the same manner as the Janizaries at 
the time of their enrolment under Amurath, and tho 
gypsies of the present day with stolen children, with 
children decoyed and kidnapped from their Catholic 
connexions by their rich and powerful Protestant neigh- 
bours : this is notorious, and one instance may suffice 
to show in what manner. The sister of a Mr. Carthy (a 
Catholic gentleman of very considerable property) died, 
leaving two girls, who were immediately marked out as 
proselytes, and conveyed to the charter school of Cool- 
greny. Their uncle, on being apprized of the fact, which 
took place during his absence, applied for the restitution 
of his nieces, offering to settle an independence on 
these relations ; his request was refused, and not till 
after five years' struggle, and the interference of very 
high authority, could this Catholic gentleman obtain 
back his nearest of kindred from a charity chaiter 
school. In this manner are proselytes obtained, ana 
mingled with the offspring of such Protestants as may 
avail themselves of the institution. And how are tliev 
taught? A catechism is put into their hands ccnsistin" 
of, I believe, forty-five pages, in which are three ques- 
tions relative to the Protestant religion ; one of these 
queries is, " Where was the Protestant religion before 
Luther?" Answer, " In the Gospel." The remaining 
forty-four pages and a half regard the damnable iaoia 
try of Papists! 

Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, ig 
this training up a child in the way which he should go * 
Is this the religion of the gospel before the time of 
Luther? that religion which preaches " Peace on earth, 
and glory to God ?" Is it bringing up infants to be men 
or devils ? Better would it be to send them any where 
than teach them such doctrines ; b« ttei se id thcni ir 



558 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



fliose islan (s iiv » -e South Seas, where they might more 
numanely !earr. lo become cannibals ; it would be less 
disgusting that ihey were brought up to devour the 
dead, than persecute the living. Schools do you call 
• hem / call ihem rather dunghills, where the viper of 
"jitolerance deposits her young, that, when their teeth 
are cut and their poison is mature, they may issue forth, 
rilthy and venomous, to sting the Catholic. But are 
these the doctrines of the Church of England, or of 
churchmen ? No ; the most enlightened churchmen are 
of a different opinion. What says Paley? " I perceive 
no reason why men of different religious persuasions, 
should not sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the 
same council, or fight in the same ranks, as well as men 
of various rehgious opinions, upon any controverted 
topic of natural history, philosophy, or ethics." It may 
be answered that Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I 
know nothing of his orthodoxy, but who will deny that 
he was an ornament to the church, to human nature, 
to Christianity? 

I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so 
severely fell by the peasantry, but it mav be proper to 
ooserve that there is an addition to the burthen, a per- 
centage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becoa.es 
to rate them as highly as possible, and we know that in 
many large Uvings in Ireland, the only resident Prot- 
estants are the tithe proctor and his family. 

Among many causes of irritation, too numerous for 
recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to be 
passed over, I mean the existence of Orange lodges 
amongst the privates ; can the officers deny this ? And 
if such lodges do exist, do they, can they tend to pro- 
mote harmony amongst the men, who arc thus indi- 
vidually separated in society, although mingled in the 
ranks? And is this general system of persecution to be 
permitted, or is it to be believed that with such a system 
the Catholics can or ought to be contented ? If they are, 
they belie human nature; they are then, indeed, un- 
worthy to be any thing but the slaves you have made 
them. The facts stated are from most respectable au- 
thority, or I should not have dared in this place, or any 
place, to hazard this avowal. If exaggerated, there are 
plenty, as willing as I believe them to be unable, to 
disprove them. Should it be objected that I never was in 
Ireland, I beg leave to observe, that it is as easy to know 
something of Ireland without having been there, as it ap- 
pears with some to have been born, bred, and cherished 
there, and yet remain ignorant of its best interests. 

But there are, who assert that the Catholics have 
already been too much indulged: see (cry they) what 
has been done : we have given them one entire college, 
*ve allow them food ana mnnent, the full enjoyment of 
the elemonts, and leave to fight for us as long as they 
have limos and lives to offer ; and yet they are never to 
be satisfied ! Generous and just declaimers ! To this, 
and to this only, amount the whole of your arguments, 
when stript of their sophistry. These personages re- 
mind me of the story of a certain drummer, who being 
called upon in the course of dutj to administer punish- 
ment to a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to 
llog high ; he did — to flog low, he did — to flog in the 
middle, he did — high, low, down the middle, and up 
agam. but all in vain, the |>atient continued his com- 
UiKinis with the most provoking pertinacity, until the 
Aniuimi'.r, exhausted and angry, flung down his scourge. 



exclaiming, "the devil burn you, there 's no pleasing 
you, flog where one will!" Thus it is, you have flogged 
the Catholic, high, low, here, there, and every wheje, 
and then you v\onder he is not pleased. It is true, that 
time, ex])erience, and that weariness which attend? 
even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you co Ho£ 
a little more gently, but still you continue to iiy on ihf 
lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may he 
wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs oi 
yourselves and your posterity. 

It was said by somebody in a former debate (1 forget 
by whom, and am not very anxious to remember), if iJie 
Catholics are emancipated, why not the Jews? If this 
sentiment was dictated by compassion for the Jews, i» 
might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Cath- 
olic, what is it but the language of Shylock transferred 
from his daughter's marriage to C atholic emancipation — 

" Would any of the tribe of Barrabbas 
Should have it rather than a Christian." 

I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the 
opinion of him whose taste only can be called in ques- 
tion for his preference of the Jews. 

It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson (whom 1 
take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle 
of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan), that he who could enter- 
tain serious apprehensions of danger to the Church in 
these times, would have " cried fire in the deluge.'" 
This is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of these 
antediluvians appear actually to have comedown to us, 
with fire in their mouths and water in their brains, to 
disturb and perplex mankind with their whimsical out- 
cries. And as it is an infallible symptom of that dis- 
tressing malady with which I conceive them to be 
afflicted (so any doctor will inform yout Lordshi[)s) foi 
the unhappy invalids lo perceive a flame perpetually 
flashing before their eyes, particularly when their eyes 
are shut (as those of the persons to whom I allude have 
long been), it is impossible to convince these poor crea- 
tures, that the fire against which they are perpetually 
warning us and themselves, is nothing but an igtns 
fatuus of their own drivelling imaginations. What 
rhubarb, senna, or " what purgative drug can scour 
that fancy thence ?" — It is impossible, they are given 
over, theirs is the true 

"Caput insanabile tribus Anticyris." 
These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who pro- 
tested against all sects whatsoever, so do they protest 
against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all re- 
dress, all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and 
common sense, can urge against the delusions of then 
absurd delirium. These are the persons wlio reverse 
the fable of the mountain that brought forth a mouse ; 
they are the mice who conceive themselves in labour 
with mountains. 

To return lo the Catholics, suppose the Irish were 
actually contented under their disabilities, suppose them 
capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance, ought 
we not lo wish it for ourselves? Have we nothing tc 
gain by their emancipation ? What resources have beep 
wasted ! What talents have been lost by the selfish 
system of exclusion i You already know the value of 
Irish aid ; at this moment the defence of England is 
enirusiod to the Irish militia; at this inomi m , whilt* 
the starving people arr 'ismg in the fierceness of de- 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



5b'3 



ftpair, the Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal 
energy is imparted throughout by the extension of free- 
Jom, you cannot enjoy the full i3enetit of the strength 
which you are glad to interpose between you and de- 
struction. Ireland has done much, but will do more. 
At tliis moment the only triumph obtained through 
.ong years of continental disaster has been achieved 
oy an Irish general ; it is true he is not a Cathohc ; had 
ne been so, we should have been deprived of his exer- 
tions ; but I presume no one will assert that his religion 
>^ould have impaired his talents or diminished his pa- 
triotism, though in that case he must have conquered 
in the ranks, for he never could have commanded an 
army. 

But while he is fighting the battles of the Catholics 
abroad, his noble brother has this night advocated 
their cause, with an eloquence which I shall not depre- 
ciate by the humble tribute of my panegyric, whilst a 
third of his kindred, as unlike as niiequal, has been 
combating against his Catholic brethren in Dublin, with 
circular letters, edicts, [jroclamations, arrests, and dis- 
persions — all the vexatious implements of petty war- 
fare that could be wielded by the mercenary guerillas 
of government, clad in the rusty armour of their obso- 
lete statutes. Your lordships will, doubtless, divide new 
honours between the saviour of Portugal, and the dis- 
penser of delegates. It is singular, indeed, to observe 
the difference between our foreign and domestic poli- 
cy ; if Catholic Spain, faithful Portugal, or the no less 
(Catholic and faithful king of the one Sicily (of which, 
by the by, you have lately deprived him), stand in 
need of succour, away goes a fleet and an army, an 
anibissador and a subsidy, sometimes to fight pretty 
hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, and always 
to pay very dearly for our Pop-ish allies. But let four 
millions of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who fight 
a.nd pay and labour in your behalf, they must be treated 
as aliens, and although their '* father's house has many 
mansions," there is no resting-place for them. Allow 
me to ask, are you not fighting for the emancipation 
of Ferdinand the Seventh, who certainly is a fool, and 
consequently, in all probability, a bigot ; and have you 
more regard for a foreign sovereign than your own 
fellow-subjects, who are not fools, for they know your 
niterest belter than you know your own ; who are not 
bigots, for they return you good for evil ; but who are 
in worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inas- 
much as the fetters of the mind are more galUng than 
those of the body. 

Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the 
C-'aimt of the petitioners, I shall not expatiate ; you 
'tnow them, you svill feel them, and your children's 
children when you are passed away. Adieu to that 
Lfnion so called, as " Lmus a non lucendo" a Union 
from never uniting, which, in its first operation, gave 
1 death-blow to the independence of Ireland, and in 
tts last may be the cause of her eternal separation from 
:nis country. If it must be called a Union, it is the 
union of the shark with his prey ; the spoiler swallows 
■jp his victim, and thus they become one and indivis- 
ble. Thus has Great Britain swallowed uj) the par- 
iament, the constitution, the indepesdence of Ireland, 
and refuses to disgorge even a single privilege, although 
for the relief of her sviollen and distempered body 
politic. 

And oow, my lords, before I sit down, will his maj- 



esty's ministers permit me to say a few words, not on 
their merits, for that would be superfluous, but on iht' 
degree of estimation in which they are held by the 
people of these realms. The esteem in which they am 
held has been boasted of in a triumphant tone on i, 
late occasion within these walls, and a comparison in- 
stituted between their conduct, and that of noble lord 
on this side of the house. 

What portion of popularity may have fallen to tie 
share of my noble friends (if such I may presume la 
call them), I shall not pretend to ascertain ; but that 
of his majesty's ministers it were vain to deny. It is. 
to be sure, a hltle like the wind, " no one knows whence 
it Cometh or whither it goeth," but they feel it, they 
enjoy it, they boast of it. Indeed, modest and unos- 
tentatious as they are, to what part of the kingdom, 
even the most remote, can they flee to avoid the tri- 
umph which pursues them ? If they plunge into the 
midland counties, there they will be greeted by the 
manufacturers, with spurned petitions in their hands, 
and those halters round their necks recently voted in 
their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads of those 
who so sim|)lj^, yet ingeniously contrived to remove 
them from their miseries in this to a better world. If 
they journey on to Scotland, from Glasgow to Johnny 
Groat's, every where will they receive similar marks of 
approbation. If they take a trip from Portpatrick to 
Donaghadee, there will they rush at once into the em- 
braces of four Catholic millions, to whom their vote 
of this night is about to endear them for ever. Wii«n 
they return to the metropolis, if they can pass undei 
Temple Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sigh 
of the greedy niches over that ominous gateway, ihei 
cannot escape the acclamations of the livery, and th( 
more tremulous, but not less sincere, applause, tht 
blessings " not loud but deep" of bankrupt merchants 
and doubting stockholders. If they look to the army, 
what wreaths, not of laurel, but of nightshade, are 
pre[)aring for the heroes of Walcheren ! It is true there 
are few living deponents left to testify to their merits 
on that occasion ; but a " cloud of witnesses" are gone 
above from that gallant army which they so generously 
and piously despatched, to recruit the " noble army ol 
martyrs." 

What if, in the course of this triumphal career (m 
which they will gather as many pebbies as Caligula's 
army did on a similar triumph, the prototype of their own), 
they do not perceive any of those memorials which a 
grateful people erect in honour of their benefactors ; what 
although not even a sign-post will condescend to deixv'^e 
the Saracen's head in favour of the hkeness of the con- 
querors of Walcheren, they will not want a picture 
who can always have a caricature ; or regret the omis- 
sion of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted 
in effigy. But their popularity is not limited to the 
narrow- bounds of an island ; there are other countries' 
where their measures, and, above all, their conduei i«; 
the Catholics, must render them pre-eminently populai 
If they are beloved here, in France they must be adored 
There is no measure more repugnant to the desijriis and 
feehngs of Buonaparte than Catholic emancipation; n<i 
line of conduct more propitious to his projects, tlia,i 
that which has been pursued, is pursuinir, and, I foaij 
will be pursued, towards Ireland. What is Eng!an<' 
without Ireland, and what is Ireland wiihot/t the Ca 
tholics? I' is on the basis of your tyra/ins Napolef» 



r>e>o 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



nopes to build his own. So grateful must oppression 
oi" the Catholics be to his mind, that doubtless (as he 
nas lately permitted some renewal of intercourse) the 
next cartel w ill convey to this country cargoes of Sevres 
china and blue ribands (things in great request, and of 
equal value at this moment), blue ribands of the legion 
of iionour for Dr. Duigenan and his ministerial disciples. 
Such is that well-earned popularity, the result of those 
extraordinary expeditions, so expensive to ourselves, 
and so useless to our allies ; of those singular inquiries, 
so exculpatory to the accused, and so dissatisfactory to 
the people ; of those paradoxical victories, so honour- 
able, as we are told, to the British name, and so de- 
structive to the best interests of the British nation : 
above all, such is the reward of a conduct pursued by 
ministers towards the Catholics. 

1 have to apologize to the House, who will, I trust, 
pardon one, not often in the habit of intruding upon 
[heir indulgence, for so long attempting to engage their 
attention. My most decided opinion is, as my vote will 
be, in favour of the motion. 



DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRIGHT'S PETITION, 
JUNE 1, 1813. 

LORD BYRON rose and said: 

My Lords, the Petition which I now hold for the 
purpose of presenting to the House, is one which I 
humbly conceive requires the particular attention of 
your lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a 
single individual, it contains statements which (if not 
disproved) demand most serious investigation. The 
grievance of which the petitioner complains is neither 
selfish nor imaginary. It is not his own only, for it 
has been, and is still felt by numbers. No one with- 
out these walls, nor indeed within, but may to-morrow 
be made liable to the same insult and obstruction, in the 
discharge of an imperious duty for the restoration of the 
true constitution of these realms by petitioning for reform 
in parliame^'it. The petitioner, my Lords, is a man whose 
long life has been spent in one unceasing struggle for 
the liberty of the subject, against that undue influence 
which has increased, is increasing, and ought to be 
diminished ; and, wnatever difference of opinion may 
exist as to nis political tenets, few will be found to 
ipiestion the integrity of his intentions. Even now, 
oppressed with years, and not exempt from the infirm- 
ities attendant on his age, but still unimpaired in tal- 
ent, and unshaken in spirit — '■'■frangaa non fectes''' — 
lie has received many a wound in the combat against 
corruption ; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of 
wnich he complains, may inflict another scar, but no 
Oi.'^Uonour. The petition is signed by John Cartwright, 
uiii it was in behalf of the people and parhament, in 
the lawful pursuit of that reform in the representation 
which is the best sjsjrvice to be rendered both to parlia- 
pent and people, that he encountered the wanton out- 
age which forms the subject matter of his petition to 
^•'lur lord ships. It is couched in firm, yet respectful 
.inauage- in the language of a man, not regardless 
>i wriiil ^ uue to himself, but at the same time, I trust, 



equally mindful of the deference to be paid to tnis 
House. The petitioner states, amongst other matter 
of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are 
British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, 
that on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield, him- 
self and six other persons, who, on hearing of his ar- 
rival, had waited on him merely as a testimony of re- 
spect, wc-e seized by a military and civil force, and 
kept in close custody for several hours, subjected to gross 
and abusive insinuations from the commanding officer 
relative to the character of the petitioner; that he (the 
petitioner) was finally carried before a magistrate ; and 
not released till an examination of his papers proved 
that there was not only no just, but not even statuta- 
ble charge against him ; and that, notwithstanding the 
promise and order from the presiding magistrates of a 
copy of the warrant against your petitioner, it was after- 
wards withheld on divers pretexts, and has never 
until this hour been granted. The names and condi' 
'tion of the parties will be found in the petition. To 
the other topics touched upon in the petition, I shall 
not now advert, from a wish not to encroach upon the 
time of the House ; but I do most sincerely call the at- 
tention of your lordships to its general contents — it is 
in the cause of the parliament and people that the 
rights of this venerable freeman have been violated, 
and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect 
that could be paid to the House, that to your justice, 
rather than by appeal to any inferior court, he now 
commits himself. Whatever may be the fate of his re- 
monstrance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mix- 
ed with regret for the occasion, that I have this oppor- 
tunity of publicly stating the obstruction to which the 
subject is liable, in the prosecution of the most lawful 
and imperious of his duties, the obtaining by petition 
reform in parliament. I have shortly stated his com- 
plaint ; the petitioner has more fully expressed it. 
Your lordships will, I hope, adopt some measure fully 
to protect and redress him, and not him alone, but the 
whole body of the people insulted and aggrieved in his 
person by the interposition of an abused civil, and un- 
lawful military force between them and their right of 
petition to their own representatives. 

His lordship then presented the petition from Major 
Cartwright, which was read, complaining of the circum- 
stances at Huddersfield, and of interruptions given to the 
right of petitioning, in several places in the northern 
parts of the kingdom, and which his lordship moved 
should be laid on the table. 

Several Lords having spoken on the question, 
LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from motives 
of duty, presented this petition to their lordships' con- 
sideration. The noble Earl had contended that it was 
not a petition but a speech ; and that, as it contained 
no prayer, it should not be received. What was the 
necessity of a prayer? If that word were to be used in 
its proper sense, their lordships could not expect that 
any man should pray to others. He had only to say 
that the petition, though in some parts expressed strongly 
perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of adiircss, 
but was couched in respectful language tosvards rheii 
lordships; he should therefore trust the r lorojhips 
would all<?w the petition to be received . 



( 561 ) 

Hon Stiaw. 



Difficile est proprie communia dicere. 

HOR. Epist. ad Pison. 
Oost lliou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more 
Cakes and Ale 1 — Yes, by St. Anne ; and Ginger shall be hot i' the 
mouth, too.— Twelfth J^igld; or What you— Will.— 

SHAKSPEARE. 



CANTO I. 



I. 

I WANT a hero : — an uncommon want, 

When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant. 

The age discovers he is not the true one; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan ; 
We all have seen him in the pantomime 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

II. 
Vernon, the butcher, Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 

Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne,Keppei, Howe, 
Kvil and good, have had their tithe of talk. 

And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
Followers of fame, " nine farrow" of that sow : 
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 

III. 
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Laimes, Dessaix, Moreau, 

With many of the military set, 
Rxceedingly remarkable at times. 
But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 

And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 
There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 

'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 
Because the army's grown more popular, 

At which the naval people are concern'd: 
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

V. 
f'rave men were living before Agamemnon,' 
\.nd since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
\ good deal like him too, though quite the same none 

liut then they shone not on the poet's page, 
A.nd so have been forgotten: — I condemn none, 

But can't find any in the present age 
fit for my poern (that is, for my new one); 
So, as I said, I 'II take my friend Don Juan. 
3 A 7fi 



VI. 

Most epic poets plunge in "medias res" 

(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road) 
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please. 

What went before — by way of episode. 
While seated after dinner at his ease. 

Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 
Palace or garden, paradise or cavern. 
Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 

VII. 
That is the usual method, but not mine — 

My way is to begin with the beginning ; 
The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 
And therefore I shall open with a line 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) 
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father. 
And also of his mother, if you 'd rather. 

VIII. 
In Seville was he born, a pleasant city. 

Famous for oranges and women — he 
Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 

So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 

Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see :— 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 

IX. 
His father's name was Jose — Don^ of course, 

A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
Of INIoor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 

Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain. 
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 

Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
Begot — but that's to come — Well, to renew: 

X. 
His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known — 
In every Christian language ever named. 

With virtues equalled by her wit alone, 
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 

And even the good with inward envy groan. 
Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
In their own way by all the things that she die. 

XI. 
Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 

AH Cdderon and greater part of Lope, 
So that if any actor miss'd his part. 

She could have served him for the prompters cop» 
For her Feinagle s were an useless ar<, 

And he himself obhged to shut up shop —he 
Could never make a memo-y so fine ♦s 
That which adorn'd the brain nf Donna In(«7. 



62 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CA^yj'o I 



XII. 



fJer favov-i^e scienco was the mathematical, 
Her nol)le^t virtue .vas her magnanimity, 

Her wit (jlie sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
Her serious sayings darken'd to subUmity : 

In shoit, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, 

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, mushn, 

And other stufTs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 

XIII. 

She V new the Latin — that is, " the Lord's prayer," 
And Greek, the alphabet, I 'ni nearly sure ; 

She read some French romances here and there, 
Although her mode of speaking was not pure: 

For native Spanish she had no great care, 
At least her conversation was obscure ; 

Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 

As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 

XIV. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 
And said there was analogy between 'em; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song. 

But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em; 

Bvu this I 've heard her say, and can't be wrong, 
And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em, 

♦ "T is strange — the Hebrew noun which means 'I am,' 

llifi English always use to govern d — n." 

XV. 

♦ **♦♦* 

♦ ♦**♦* 



XVI. 

In ■^hort, she was a walking calculation, 

Miss Edgevvorlh's novels stepping from their covers. 
Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education. 

Or "Coelebs' Wife" set out in quest of lovers, 
Morality's prim personification, 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
To others' share let "female errors fall," 
F >r she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XVII. 
Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 

Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 
So far above the cunning powers of hell, 

Hev guardian angel had given up his garrison; 
Even her minutest motions went as well 

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her. 
Save thme " mcomparable oil," Macassar !^ 

XVIIl. 
Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

lnsv| id in this naughty world of ours. 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
vVtif-fp all was peace, and innocence, and bliss 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), 
Onii lose ike a lineal son of Eve, 
^Vpiii plucking various fruit without her leave. 



XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind, 

With no great love for learning, or the leair'd. 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; 

The world, as usual, wickedly mclined 

To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said Iwo^ 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 

XX. 

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 
And such indeed she was in her morahties; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit. 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities. 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can. 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

That you might "brain them with their lady's ianj" 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard. 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 
'Tis pity learned virgins ever w^ed 

With persons of no sort of education, 
Or gentlemen who, though well-tjorn and bred. 

Grow tired of scientific conversation : 
I don't choose to say much upon this head, 

I 'm a plain man, and in a single station. 
But — oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual. 
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all? 

XXIII. 
Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why 

Not any of the many could divine. 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine : 
I loathe that low vice curiosity ; 

But if there's anything in which I shine, 
'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs. 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 
And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 
I think the foolish people were possess'd. 

For neither of them could I ever lind, 
AUhough their porter afterwards confess'd — 

But that's no matter, and the worst's behmd. 
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 

And mischief-making monkev fron: his hirtli ; 
His parents ne'er agreed exce|)i in doting 

Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 

Their senses, they 'd have sent young master fojlJ 
To school, or had him whi[)p'd at home. 
To teach him manners for the time to come. 



CA.VTO 1. 



DON JUAN. 



563 



XXVI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez ed 

Fo;- some time an unhappy sort of life, 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
They hved respectably as man and wife, 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad^ 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only had; 

Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had, 

Save that her duty both to man and God 

Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 

XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where his faults wc/e noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 

All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors. 

Besides her good old grandmother (who doted) ; 
The hearers of her case became repeaters. 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges. 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
W ith such serenity her husband's woes. 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 

Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose. 

And saw his agonies with such sublimity. 

That all the world exclaim'd, " What magnanimity !" 

XXX. 

No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us. 

Is philosophic in our former friends ; 
'Tis also pleasant to be deemed magnanimous, 

The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyers call a " malus animus,''^ 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends ; 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue. 
But then 't is not my fault if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And ir our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

/'m not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional ; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 

By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all ; 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends had tried at reconciliation. 
Then their relations, who made matters worse 

('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse— 
can't say much for friend or yet relation) : 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee wau paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 



XXXIII. 

He died : and most unluckily, because, 
According to all hints I cr.uld collect 

From counsel learned in those kinds of laws 
(Although their talk's obscure and circutr.speci 

His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 
A thousand pities also with respect 

To pubhc feeling, which on this occasion 

Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say: 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever called the tertian. 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an honourable man. 

That I must say, who knew hitn very well ; 
Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan. 

Indeed there were not many more to tell ; 
And if his passions now and then outran 

Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius), 
He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 

XXXVI. 
Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth. 

Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him. 
Let 's own, since it can do no good on earth ; 

It was a trying moment that which found him. 
Standing alone beside his desolate hearth. 

Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him , 
No choice was left his feelings or his pride 
Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 

XXXVII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery-suit, and messuages, and lands. 
Which, with a long minority and care, 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 

And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 
An only son left with an only mother 
Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest of women, even of widows, she 

Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon. 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon. 

Then for accomplishments of chivalry. 

In case our lord the king should go to war ao^u; 

He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 

And how to scale a fortress — or a nunner>. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired. 
And saw into herself each day before al' 

The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 
Was that his breeding should be strictly niurdi 

Much into all his studies she inquired, 

And so they were submitted first to her, ail. 

Arts, sciences, no r)ranch was made a mysterv 

To Juan's eyes, excepting natural hirloiv. 



5G4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LAN! (J L 



XL. 

The languages, especially the dead, 
The sciences, and n^ost of all the abstruse, 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use, 

In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
But not a page of any thing 'that 's loose, 

Or hints continuation of the species, 

vVas ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. 

XLI. 

His classic studies made a little puzzle, 
Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 

Who in the earlier ages -aised a bustle, 
But never put on pantaloons or boddices; 

His reverend tutors had at times a tussle. 
And for their ^Eneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 

Por Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him ; 

Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample ; 
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem ; 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 
Although' Longinus tells us there is no hynm 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample ; 
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one 
Ucgmnmg with '■'■ Formosum pastor Corydon,^^ 

XLIII. 

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, 
' can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong. 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
b(\ speaking out so plainly in his song. 

So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
And then what proper person can be partial 
I'o all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 

XLIV. 

iuan was taught from out the best edition. 
Expurgated by learned men, who place, 

Judiciously, from out the school-boy's vision. 
The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 

Too much their modest bard by this omission. 
And pitying sore his mutilated case. 

They only add them all in an appendix,* 

Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 

For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 

I'hey stand forth ma^rshall'd in a handsome troop, 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

I ill some less rigid editor shall stoop 
To call them back into their separate cages, 

Ins'ead of standing staring altogether, 

I. ike garden gods — and not so decent, either. 

XLVI. 

' he Mi,5sal too (it was the family Missal) 

VVas ornamenteu m a sort of way 
'Vhich aiicient mass-books often are, and this all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they 
Who saw tiiuse figuies on the margin kiss all. 

Could turn t^^eir optics to the text and pray 
(s more than l rf.iow — but Don Juan's mother 
•xep* -his herself, and gave her son another. 



XLVII. 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured. 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured. 

He did not take such studies for restraints : 

But how faith is acquired, and then insured. 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 

Which make the reader envy his transgressions 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right. 

If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright ; 

She did this during even her husband's life- 

I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 

Young Juan vvax'd in goodliness and grace : 
At six a charming child, and at eleven 

With all the promise of as fine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given. 

He studied steadily and grew apace. 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven 

For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 

Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said he was a charming child, 
At twelve, he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down amongst them : to destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. 

At least at seem'd so; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
But what I say is neither here nor there ; 

I knew his father well, and have some skill 
In character — but it would not be fait 

From sire to son to augur good or ill : 
He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 

But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 

Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 

For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 

This I will say — my reasons are my own — 
That if I had an only son to put 

To school (as God be praised that I have nonej 
'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut 

Him up to learn his catechism alone ; 
No — no — I 'd send him out betimes to college. 
For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 

LIII. 
For there one learns — 'tis not for mo to boast. 

Though I acquired — but I pass over that. 
As well as all the Greek I since have .ost : 

I say that there's the place — but ♦' Verbvm f<U- 
I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most. 

Knowledge of matters — but, no matter wha." 
I never married — but I think, I know. 
That sons should not be educated so. 



i 



d INTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



5P5 



LIV. 

Voiiiig Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit ; he seem'd 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; 
And every body but his mother deem'd 

Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage, 
And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Atnongst her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion, 
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
Of nraany charms, in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid 
(But this last simile is trite and stupid). 

LVI. 

The darkness of her oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin : 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin). 
When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remam. 

LVII. 

She married (I forget the pedigree) 

VVith an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
His blood less noble than such blood should be : 

Ar such alliances his sires would frown, 
In tha>. point so precise in each degree 

That they bred in and in., as might be shown. 
Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts and nieces, 
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVIII. 
This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 

Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 
For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 

Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 

But there's a rumour which I fain would hush— 
'T IS said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 
However this might be, the race went on 

Improving still through every generation, 
Until it center'd in an only son. 

Who left an only daughter ; my narration 
May have suggested that this single one 

Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 
I shall have much to speak about), and she 
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 

LX. 
Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) 

Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 

Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
And love than either ; and there would arise 

A sometnipg in them which was not desire. 
But would have been, perhaps, b»it for the soul 
Which struggled through and chasteii'd down the whole. 
pA2 



LXI. 

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
Bright with intelligence, and fair and stiiooih ; 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bou , 
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth. 

Mounting at limes to a transparent glow, 

As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 

Possess'd an air and grace by no means c'ommcii • 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

Lxn. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one, 

'T were better to have two of five-and-twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun : 

And now I think on 't, " mi vien in mente," 

Ladies, even of the most uneasy virtue. 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 

LXIII. 

'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
And all the fault of that indecent sun 

Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay. 
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on. 

That, howsoever people fast and pray. 
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery. 

Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral north ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth 

('T was snow that brought Saint Anthony to reason ) 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth. 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price. 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

LXV. 
Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd: 

They lived together as most people do, 
Suffering each others' foibles by accord, 

And not exactly either one or two ; 
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXVI. 
Julia was — yet I never could see why — 

With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend : 
Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 

For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, - 

For malice still imputes some private end) 
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXVII. 
And that, still keeping up the old connexion, 

Which time had lately render'd much more chdstf 
She look his lady also in affection. 

And certainly this course was much the best . 
She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection. 

And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
And if she could not (who can?) silence scandai. 
At least she left it a more slender handlo. 



366 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO I 



LXVIII. 

can't tell w hether Julia saw the affair 

With oiher people's eyes, or if her own 
Disco /cries made, but none could be aware 

Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; 
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 

Indifferent from the first or callous grown : 
I 'm really'puzzled what to think or say, 
She kept her counsel in so close a way, 

LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 

Caress'd him often, such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled 
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 

But I am not so sure 1 should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three : 

These few short years make wondrous alterations, 

Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 

LXX. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
And much embarrassment in either eye ; 

Therp surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Then he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 

And tremulously gentle her small hand 
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 

A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 

'T was but a doubt ; bat ne'er magician's wand 
Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 
And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 

She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish d more the while, 
For that compression in its burning core ; 

Even innocence itself has many a wile. 
And will not dare to trust itself with truth. 
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 
But passion most disseml)les, yet betrays 

Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 

Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye, 
And in whatever aspect it arrays 

Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ; 
Coldn^-ss or anger, even disdain or hate, 
^le masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 
rtjcp there were sighs, the deeper for suppression. 

And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft. 
And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 

T'-emblings when met, and restlessness when left : 
Ail these are 'ittle preludes to possession, 

0< which young passion cannot be bereft. 
And roersiy end to show how greatly love is 
Eaioa. ra^ts'd <*i first starting with a novice. 



LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state : 
She felt it going, and resolved to make 

The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 

For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake ; 

Her resolutions were most truly great. 

And almost might have made a Tarquin quak 

She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace. 

As being the best judge of a lady's case. 

LXXVI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more. 
And next day paid a visit to his mother. 

And look'd extremely at the opening door. 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

'T is surely Juan now — No ! I 'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a \'irtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation , 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 

That is to say a thought, beyond the common 
Preference that we must feel upon occasion 

For people who are pleasanter than others. 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

Lxxvm. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil 's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over 
And, if the man should ask, 't is but denial . 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 
And then there are such things as love divine, 

Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 
Such as the angels think so very fine. 

And matrons, who would be no less secure, 
Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine;" 

Thus JuUa said — and thought so, to be sure, 
And so I 'd have her think, were I the man 
On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 
Such lovp is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger ; 
A hand may first, and then a hp be kiss'd ; 

For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger. 
But hear these freedoms for the utmost list 

Of all o'er which such love may be a rnjiger : 
If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, 
But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXXI. 
Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favour, and to hirr. iis 

Exertion might be useful op occasion 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim js 

Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be taught, by love and ner together- 
1 really don't know what, nor Tu' a. e'ther 




j)ra--j-. >.- il.j{:L->. 



HE THOTTGHT JJiOlTT BHISELT, SUD THE WHOLE EARTH, 
OF ilAS- THE WOyiXBKFVlL , AXD OF THE STARS. 

JC.'D HOW" THE nErCE THEi' EVER COrXD HAVE BUtTH ; 

.■OCD THEX HE THOTTeHT OF EAHTHQITAKES , A5fD OF T\::AaS , 

HOTriLOTY illlES THE MO OX lUGHT HAVE IX GIRTH, 
OE ArR-B-iLLOOiTS, A-XD OF THE ILi^'l' BASS 

TO PERFECT BaSTOWT-EDGE OF TKE BOTT^TDXESS SSXES; 

AXX> THEX HE THOtTO-HT OF nOXtN^A .rn,ris ESES . 



i3t^ ' STT-A^r 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



367 



LXXXII. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 

In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 
She, for the future, of her strength convinced. 

And that her honour was a rock, or mole, 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control. 
But whether Julia "to the task was equal 
Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
And, surely, ,vith a stripling of sixteen 

Not scandars fangs could fix on much that's seizable ; 
Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 

Notliing but what was good, her breast was peaceable — 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 

Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded 

That all the apostles would have done as they did. 

LXXXIV. 

And if, in the mean time, her husband died, 
But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 

Her brain, though in a dream, (and then she sigh'd!) 
Never could she survive that common 'oss ; 

But just suppose that moment should betide, 
I only say suppose it — inter nos 

(This should be enire nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought). 

LXXXV. 

I only say suppose this supposition : 

Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, 
tVovild fully suit a widow of condition ; 

Even seven years hence it would not be too late; 
And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 

Tiie mischief, after all, could not be great, 
For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
I mean the seraph way of those above. 

J.XXXVI. 
So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
He puzzled over what he found a new one, 

But not ag yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming. 
Which, witli a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXVII. 
Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 

His home deserted for the lonely wood, 
Tormented with a wound he could not know, 

His, Uke all deep grief, plunged in solitude. 
I 'm fond myself of solitude or so. 

But then I beg it may be understood 
By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 

LXXXVIII. 
** Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, 

Where transport and security entwine, 
Tere is the empire of thy perfect bliss. 

And here thou art a god indeed divine." 
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,* 

With the exception oi the second hne, 
r'or that same twining " transport and security " 
Vre twisted to a nhrase of some obscurity. 



LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind, 

The very thing which every body feels. 
As all have found on trial, or may find. 

That no one likes to be di&turb'd at meals 
Or love: — I v\-on't say more about "entwined'' 

Or " transport," as we know all that before, 

But beg " security " will bolt the door. 

XC. 

Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks. 
Thinking unutterable things: he threw 

Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grrw 

There poets find materials for their books, 

And every now and then we read them through, 

So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 

Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 

XCI. 

He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth), so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul, 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood. 
Had mifigated part, though not the wliole 

Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control. 

And turn'd, without perceiving his condition. 

Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

XCII. 

He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 

Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 
And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 

And then he thought of earthquakes and ol' war*. 
How many miles the moon might have in girth, 

Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; 
And then he thought of Donna Juha's eyes, 

XCIII. 
In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 

Longings sublime, and aspirations high. 
Which some are born with, but the most part iearr 

To plague themselves withal, they know not \\hv ■ 
'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern 

His brain about the action of the skj' ; 
If you think 't v.-as philosophy that this did, 
I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

XCIV. 
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 

And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers. 

And how the goddesses came down to men . 
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 

And, when he look'd upon his watch aaain, 
He found how much old Time had been a winner - 
He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

XCV. 
Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book 

Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 
Even as the page is rustled while we look. 

So by the poesy of his own mind 
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook. 

As if 'twere one wheieon magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passing gales 
According to some good old woman's trJ '■ 



568 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO , 



XC\I. 

f hus would he while his lonely hours away 

D.ssatisfieJ, nor knowing what he wanted; 
N'or glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 

Could yield his spirit thai for which it panted, — 
A bosom whareon he his head might lay, 

And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, 
With — several other things, which I forget, 
Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XCVII. 
Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries 

Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes; 
S'le saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 

But that which chiefly may and must surprise, 
Is, that the Doniia Inez did not tease 

Eler only son with question or surmise ; 
Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
Or, like all very clever people, could not. 

XCVIII. 
This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common ; 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 

And break the — Which commandment is 't they break? 
(I have forgot the number, and think no man 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake). 
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 

XCIX. 
A. real husband always is suspicious. 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place, 
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 

Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace. 
By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 

The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 
And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, 
He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

C. 

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, 
Ttu' wliile the wicked world beholds, delighted, 

V(Hing Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
1 1ll some confounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears. 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 
but Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think on this occasion. 
She had some other motive much more near 

For leaving Juan to this new temptation ; 
But v/hal that motive vvas, I shan't say here ; 

I'erhaps to finish Juan's education, 
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 
In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 

CII. 
ft Nvds upon a day, a summer's day ; 

Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season. 
And so is spring about the end of May ; 

The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; 
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 

And stand convicted of more truth than treason, 
Tlirj there are months which nature grows more 

merry in- - 
Maroh nas .ts hures, and May must have its heroine. 



cm. 

'T was on a summer's day — the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates. 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 

They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune, 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states. 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology. 
Excepting the post-obits of theology. 

CIV. 

'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-pait six — perhaps still nearer seven. 

When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
As ere h.jld houri in that heathenish heaven 

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given. 

With all the trophies of triumphant song — 

He won then well, and may he wear them long. 

CV. 

She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
How this same interview had taken place- 

And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any case ; 

No matter how or why the thing befell. 

But there were she and Juan face to face — 

When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, 

But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CVL 

How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 

Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrung ; 
Oh love ! how perfect is thy mystic art. 

Strengthening the weak and trampling on the strong 
How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along : 
The precipice she stood on was immense — 
So was her creed in her own innocence. 

CVII. 
She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, 

And of the folly of all prudish fears. 
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth. 

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 

Because that number rarely much endears, 
And through all cUmes, the snowy and the sunny. 
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money, 

CVIII. 
When people say, " I 've told you Jifty times," 

They mean to scold, and very often do ; 
When poets say " I 've written Jifty rhymes," 

They make you dread that they '11 recite them to«» , 
In gangs o^Jifty, thieves commit their crimes ; 

At Jifti/i love for love is rare, 't is true ; 
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. 

CIX. 
JuJa had honour, virtue, truth, and love 

I'or Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore. 
By all the vows below to powers above. 

She never would disgrace the ring she wore. 
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove : 

And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown. 
Quite by mistake — she thought it was her o\vn; 



::AN'ro £. 



DON JUAN. 



5G9 



ex. 



Cnconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
Wliich play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not smother, 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

'1 was surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair. 

She who for many years had watch'd her son so— 

I'm vei^ certain mine would not have done so. 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, bat palpably, confirm'd its grasp, 

As if it saia " detain me, if you please ;" 
Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze : 

She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp. 

Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 

A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 

cxn. 

I cannot know what Juan thought of this. 

But what he did is much what you would do ; 

His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss. 
And then, abash'd at his own joy, withdrew 

in deep despair, lest he had done amiss. 
Love is so very timid when 'lis new: 

She blush'd and frcwn'd not, but she strove to speak. 

And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

cxm. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: 
The devil's in the moon for mischief; they 

Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 
Their nomenclature : there is not a day, 

The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
Sees half the business in a wicked way 

On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 

And then she looks so modest all the while. 

CXIV. 

There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 

To open all itself, without the power 
Of calling wholly back its self-control; 

The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower. 
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 

Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 

A loving languor, which is not repose. 

cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, 

And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed: 

Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 
Or else 'l were easy to withdraw her waist ; 

But then the situation had its charm, 

And then God knows what next — I can't go on ; 

I 'm abnost sorry that I e'er begun. 

CXVI. 
Oh, Plato 1 Plato ! you have paved the way, 

With your confounded fantasies, to more 
Immoral conduct bj^ the fancied sway 

Your svsteni feigns o'er the controlless core 
Of human hearts, than all the long array 

Of poets and romancers: — You're a bore, 
A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been. 
At best, no better than a go-between. 
77 



cxvn. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs. 
Until too late for useful conversation ; 

The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
I w-ish, indeed, the}' had not had occasion ; 

But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 
Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 

A httle still she strove, and much repented. 

And whispering "I will ne'er consent" — consented 

cxvni. 

'Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward 

To those who could invent him a new pleasure , 

Methinks the requisition's rather hard. 

And must have cost his majesty a treasure: 

For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard. 
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure) ; 

I care not for new pleasures, as the old 

Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 

CXIX. 

Oh Pleasure ! you 're indeed a pleasant thing. 
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt j 

I make a resolution every spring 
Of reformation ere the year run out, 

But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing. 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout: 

I'm very sorry, very much asham.ed. 

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

cxx. 

Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 

Start not ! still chaster reader,— she '11 be nice hence- 

Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 
This hberty is a poetic license 

Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a high sense 

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'lis fit 

To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sLxth (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 

For want of facts, would all be thrown away*. 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we '11 »av 

'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 

About the day — the era 's more obscure. 

CXXII. 

We'll talk of that anon. — 'Tis sweet to hear, 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier. 

By distance meUow'd, o'er the waters sv.-eep , 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 
'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds cree]* 

From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 

cxxm. 

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd w-elcome as we draw nca'- ''ciafl 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come , 

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark. 
Or luU'd by falling waters; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of biras, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest worii, 



570 



B\flON'S VVOUKS. 



CANTO 



CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth; 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

cxxv. 

Sweet is a legacy ; and passing sweet 
The unexpected death of some old lady 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
Who 've made " us youth" wait too — too long already 

For an estate, or cash or country-seat, 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 

Next owner, for their double-damn'd post-obits. 

CXXVI. 

Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 
By blood or ink ; 't is sweet to put an end 

To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 

Sweet is old wine in bottles- ale in barrels ; 
Dear is the helpless crea/ure we defend 

Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot 

We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all. 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 
The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd-all's known- 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this an .brosial sin so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filch' d for us from heaven. 

C XXVIII. 

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature and the various arts. 

And likes particularly to produce 

Some new experiment to show his parts: 

ITiis IS the age of oddities let loose. 

Where different talents find their different marts ; 

Yon 'd best begin with truth, and when you 'velost your 

1 dbour, there 's a sure market for imposture. 

CXXIX. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs (if true genius, and of empty pockets:) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine. 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets ; 
But vaccination certainly has been 
A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 

+ + * + * 

» + * * * 

CXXX. 

BTP.aJ has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, 
\Hd galvanism has set some corpses grinning. 
But has not answer'd hke the apparatus 

or the Humane Society's beginning, 
L?v which men are unsuffocated gratis ; — 
^V'h at wondrous newmacliines have late been spinning 
♦ * ♦ ♦ * 

■«>»♦*♦ 



CXXXI. 



CXXXII. 

This is the patent age of new inventions 
For killing bodies and for saving souls. 

All propagated with the best intentions : 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 

Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions 
Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles 

Are ways to benefit mankind, as true. 

Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measuie, 

'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that 

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure^ 

Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure. 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then - 

CXXXIV. 

What then? — I do not know, no more do you— 
And so good night. — Return we to our story: 

'Twas in November, when fine days are few, 
Arid the far mountains wax a httle hoary, 

And clap a white cape on their mantles blue ; 
And the sea dashes round the promontory, 

And the loud breaker boils against the rock. 

And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

cxxxv. 

'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 

With the piled wood, round which the fimily crowd , 
There 's something cheerful in that sort of light. 

Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud : 
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat 

CXXXVI. 

'T was midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 

Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 

If they had never been awoke before — 
And that they have been so we all have read, 

And are to be so, at the least, once more — 
The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist. 
First knocks were heard, then "Madam — Madam — hist! 

C XXXVII. 
"For God's sake. Madam — Madam — here's my mastm 

With more than half the city at his back — 
Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster? 

'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack' 
Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster — 

They're on the stair just now, and in a cracH 
Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly- 
Surely the window 's net 60 very high'" 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



571 



CXXXVIII. 

By this lime Don Alfonso was arrived, 

With torches, friends, and servants in great number ; 
The major part of them had long been wived, 

And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 
Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 
Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 
Could enter into Don Alfonso's head, 

But for a cavaUer of his condition 
It surely was exceedingly ill-bred. 

Without a word of previous admonition, 
To hold a levee round his lady's bed. 

And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword. 

To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 

CXL. 

Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep 

(Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept). 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and v»^eep ; 
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 

Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, 
As if she had just now from out them crept : 

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 
Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid. 

Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two. 
And therefore side by side were gently laid, 

Until the hours of absence should run through, 
And truant husband should return, and say, 
" My dear, I was the first who came away." 

CXLII. 
Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 

" In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean ? 
Has madness seized you? would that I had died 

Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 
What may this midnight violence betide, 

A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 
Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? 
Search, then, the room !" — Alfonso said, " I will." 

cxLin. 

He search'd,(7iey search'd, and rummaged every where. 
Closet and clothes'-press, chest and window-seat. 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 

With other articles of ladies fair. 
To keep them beautifijl, or leave them neat : 

Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, 

And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 
CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found- 
No matter what — it was not that they sought. 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
Had signs or foot-marks, but the earth said nought : 

And then they stared each other's faces round : 
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought. 

And seems to me almost a sort of blimder. 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 



CXLV. 

During this inquisition Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep — "Yes, search and search," she cried, 
"Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have sulTer'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I '11 bear no more, nor here remain. 
If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain. 

CXLVI. 

" Yes, Don Alfonso, husband now no more. 
If ever you indeed deserved the name. 

Is 't worthy of your years ? — you have tlireesccre, 
Fifty, or sixty — it is all the same — 

Is 't wise or fitting causeless to explore 

For facts against a N^irtuous woman's fame ? 

Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso ! 

How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 

cxLvn. 

"Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 

The common privileges of my sex? 
That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex. 
And never once he has had cause to scold. 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married — 
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried ! 

cxLvni. 

" Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville "? 
Is it for this I scarce went any where. 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel ? 
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 

I favour'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?^ 

CXLIX. 
"Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 

Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 
Did not his countryman. Count Corniani, 

Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 
Were there not also Russians, English, many? 

The Count StrongstroganofF I put in pain. 
And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer. 
Who kiU'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 
" Have I not had two bishops at my feet. 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez ? 
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is . 
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd triggo' 
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? 

CLI. 
"Was it for this you took your sudden jomTic%, 

Under pretence of business indispensable. 
With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 

Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 
Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, hp 

Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensioifj- 
Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee. 
And not for any love to you or me. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO I 



CLII. 

**If he conies here to take a deposition, 
By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 

Tou 've made the apartment in a fit condition : 
There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need — 

Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 

But, as my maid 's undress'd, pray turn your spies out." 

" Oh!" sobb'd Antonia, "I could tear their eyes out." 

CLIII. 

*' There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The ante-chamber — search them under, over : 

There is the sofa, there the gi-eat arm-chair, 
The chimney — which would really hold a lover. 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 

And, when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 

CLIV. 

" And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 

Doubt upon me, confusion over all. 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

I'Vlio is the man you search for ? how d' ye call 
Him? what's his lineage? let him but be shown — 

I hope he 's young and handsome — is he tall ? 
Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 

CLV. 

" At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years — 

At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 

(Antonia! let me have a glass of water). 
I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 

They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 
My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
That I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLVI. 
" Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous, 

You saw that she was sleeping by my side 
When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 

Look where you please — we 've nothing, sir, to hide; 
Only another lime, I trust, you 'II tell us. 

Or f(ir the sake of decency abide 
A moment at the door, that we may be 
Dress'd to receive so much good company. 

CLvn. 

" And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The httle I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow: — 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

'T will one day ask you why you used me so ? 
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
Aii'nnia' where 's my pocket-handkerchief ?" 

CLVUL 
She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 

She lay. her dark eyes flashing through their tears, 
LiKe skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil 

Waved ard o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
M«r streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 

To hide tne g:ossy shoulder which uprears 
lis snuw through all ; — hp*- soft lips lie apart, 
^n<( lo'j«)er than her breathing beats her heart. 



CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room. 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, hke Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 

CLX. 

With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood 
Following Antonia's motions here and there. 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputation he had httle care: 

So that a suit or action were made good, 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 

Were proved by competent false witnesses. 

CLXL 

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks. 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks. 
And treating a young wife with so much rigour, 

He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes. 
Added to those his lady with such vigour 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour. 

Quick, thiclv, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 

CLxn. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 

To which the sole reply were tears and sobs, 

And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prologue is always certain throes and throbs, 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : — 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 

He saw, too, in perspective, her relations, 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

cLxm. 

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 
The anvil of his speech received the hammer. 

With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no mort, 
Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter'd " D n her." 

But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 
He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 
With him retired his '■'■posse comitatus,''^ 

The attorney last, who linger'd near the door, 
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 

Antonia let him — not a little sore 
At this most strange and unexplam'd "Aiafits" 

In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 
No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind ! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame. 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, 
Yoimg Juan slipp'd, half-smolher'd, from the bed 



CANTO 1. 



DON JUAN. 



573 



CLXVI. 

He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 
How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 

Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 
No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; 

But pity him I neither must nor may 
His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 

'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut, 

With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsev butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 

Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, — 
At least 't was rather early to begin ; 

But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 
So much as when we call our old debts in 

At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 

And find a deuced balance with the devil. 

CLXVIII. 

Of his position I can give no notion : 
'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 

How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
Pres.cribed, by way of blister, a young belle. 

When old King David's blood grew dull in motion. 
And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 

Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, 

For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 

What 's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 

The moment he has sent his fools away. 
An tenia's skill was put upon the rack. 

But no device could be brought into play — 
And how to parry the renew'd attack ? 

Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 
Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak. 
But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 
He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 

Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; 
Even then their love they could not all command, 

And half forgot their danger and despair : 
Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 

" Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there," 
She whisper'd in great wrath — " I must deposit 
This pretty gentleman within the closet : 

CLXXI. 
'* Pray keep your nonsense for feome luckier night — 

WTio can have put my master in this mood ? 
What will become on't? — I'm in such a fright! 

The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 
Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? 

Why, don't you know that it may end in blood ? 
You '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 
My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 

CLXXII. 
•* Had it but been for a stout cavalier 

Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 
But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 

I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 
'Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 

There, for the present at the least he 's fast, 
And, if we can but till the morning keep 
Orir counsel — (Juan, mind you must not sleep)." 
3B 



CLXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 

She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 

However, present remedy was none, 

And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'.i 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view. 

She snuff 'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew, 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 

Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 

He would not justify what he had done. 

To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding: 

But there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole. 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call " rigmarole.^'' 

CLXXV. 

Julia said nought ; though all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, 
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables ; 

'T is to retort with firmness, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 

CLXXVI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 

Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 
But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds— 

But that can't be, as has been often shown ; 
A lady with apologies abounds : 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 
From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 
To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXVII. 
There might be one more motive, which makes two : 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
Conceal'd amongst his premises; 'tis true. 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery broodea 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's wa)'. 

CLXXVIII. 
A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 

But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
Which keeps, wh'^n push'd by questions rather rougt* 

A lady always distant from the fact — 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace. 
There's nothing so becoming to the face. 

CLXXIX. 
They blush, and we believe iiem ; at least I 

Have always done so; 'tij of no great use. 
In any case, attempting a reply. 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse . 
And when at length they 're out of br'^ath, they sict.. 

And cast then languid eyes down, and let loose 
A tear or two, and then we make it up : 
And then — and then — 2nd then — sit dov/o ar.d siut 



574 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO I. 



CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, 
Which JuUa half withheld, and then half granted, 

A nd laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
Denying several Uttle things he wanted : 

He stood, like Adam, lingering near his garden, 
With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, 

Beseeching she no further would refuse, 

When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A pair of shoes ! — what then? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 

(No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
Were mascuhne : to see them and to seize 

Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! well-a-day ! 
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 

And then flew out into another passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 

And Juha instant to the closet flew ; 
*' Fly, Juan, fly ! for Heaven's sake — not a word — 

The door is open — you may yet slip through 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — fly — fly — adieu! 
Hasve — haste ! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet- 
Day has not broke — there 's no one in the street." 

CLXXXIII. 
None can say that this was not good advice, 

The only mischief was, it came too late ; 
Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 

A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 
Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 

And might have done so by the garden-gate, 
But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, 
Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down. 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light, 

Antonia cried out " Rape !" and Julia "Fire !" 
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 

Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 
Swore lustily he 'd be revenged this night ; 

And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher ; 
His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tartar, 
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 
Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 

And they continued battling hand to hand, 
For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not being under great command, 
If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 

Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives 
And how you may be doubly widows — wives ! 

CLXXXVI. 
Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 

And Juan throttled him to get away, 
And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow; 

At last, as they more faintly wresthng lay, 
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, 

And then his only garment quite gave way ; 
Ho flp.c, like Joseph, leaving it — but there, 
» iJoubi. all likeness ends between the pair. 



CLxxxvn. 

Lights came at length, and men and njaJds, who found 
An awkward spectacle their eyes Dfcfore ; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 

Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more ; 

Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 

And, liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVIII. 
Here ends this Canto. — Need I sing or say. 

How Juan, naked, favour'd by the night 
(W^ho favours what she should not), found his wLf 

And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight ? 
The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 

The nine days' wonder which was brought to Ughi, 
And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 
Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would hke to see the whole proceedings. 
The depositions, and the cause at full. 

The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
Of counsel to nonsuit or to annul, 

There 's more than one edition, and the readings 
Are various, but they none of them are dull. 

The best is that in short-hand, ta'en by Gurney, 

Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

cxc. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 

Of one of the most circulating scandals 
That had for centuries been known in Spain, 

At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 

To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 
And then, by the advice of some old ladies. 
She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 
She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes by land or sea. 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 

Especially in France and Italy, 
(At least this is the thing most people do;. 

Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
Grieved, but perhaps, her feehngs may be bettei 
Shown in the following copy of her letter ; 

CXCII. 
" They tell me 't is decided, you depart : 

'T is wise — 't is well, but not the less a pain 
I have no further claim on your young heart, 

Mine is the victim, and would be again : 
To love too much has been the only art 

I used ; — 1 write in haste, and if a slain 
Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears — 
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears 

CXCIII. 
" I loved, I love you ; for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esiw- n 
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost. 

So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast, — 

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem . 
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I 've nothing to reproach or to request. 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



576 



CXCIV. 

''Plan's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
'T is woman's whole existence; man may range 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart ; 
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 
And few there are whom these cannot estrange : 

Men have all these resources, we but one — 

To love again, and be again undone. 

cxcv. 

" You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, 
Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 

For me on earth, except some years to hide 
My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core : 

These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
The passion, which still rages as before, 

And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 

That word is idle now — but let it go. 

CXCVI. 

*' My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 

But still, I think, I can collect my mind ; 
My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, 

As roll the waves bofore the settled wind ; 
My heart is femmine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind : 
So shakes tne needle, and so stands the pole, 
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 

CXCVII. 
"I have no more to say, but linger still, 

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
And yet I may as well the task fulfil. 

My misery can scarce be more complete : 
[ had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet. 
A^nd I must even survive this last adieu. 
And bear with life, to love and pray for you!" 

CXCVIII. 
This note was written upon gilt-edged paper, 

With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new : 
Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper. 

It trembled as magnetic needles do. 
And yet she did not let one tear escape her; 

The seal a sun-flower ; " Elle vous suit partout^'' 
The motto cut upon a white cornelian. 
The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 
This was Don Juan's earhest scrape ; but whether 

I shall proceed with his adventure is 
Dependent on the public altogether: 

We '11 see, however, what they say to this 
(Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather, 

And no great mischief 's done by their caprice); 
And, if their approbation we experience, 
Perhaps they '11 have some more about a year hence. 

CC. 
My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 

A hst of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 
New characters ; the episodes are three : 

A panorama view of hell 's in training, 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
So ihat my name of Epic 's no misnomer. 



CCI. 

All these things will be specified in time. 
With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 

The vade mecum of the true sublime, 

Which makes so many poets and some fools ; 

Prose poets like blank- verse — I 'm fond of rhyme- 
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 

I 've got new mythological machinery, 

And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

ecu. 

There 's only one slight difference between 
Me and my epic brethren gone before, 

And here the advantage is my own, I ween, 
(Not that I have not several merits more); 

But this will more peculiarly be seen ; 
They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 

Their labyrinth of fables to thread through. 

Whereas this story 's actually true. 

ccm. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to facts. 
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel. 

To plays in five, and operas in three acts ; 
All these confirm my statement a good deal, 

But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 

CCIV. 

If evor I should condescend to prose, 
I '11 write poetical commandments, which 

Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
That went before ; in these I shall enrich 

My text with many things that no one knows. 
And carry precept to the highest pitch : 

I '11 call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 

Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 

ccv. 

Thou shalt beUeve in Milton, Dryden, Pope : 

Thou shalt not set u p Words worth,C oleridge,Southcy , 
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 

The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey 
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore : 

CCVI. 
Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 

His Pegasus, nor any thing that 's his : 
Thou shalt not bear false witness, like " the Blues," 

(There 's one, at least, is very fond of this): 
Thou shalt not write, in short, but 'vhat I choose ; 

This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
Exactly as you please, or not — the rod. 
But if you don't, I '11 lay it on, by G — a ! 

CCVII. 
If any person should presume to assert 

The story is not moral, first, I pray 
That they will not cry out before they're huii. 

Then that they '11 read it o'er again, and say 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay ; 
Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wi'sked people go^ 



57G 



BYROIN'S WORKS. 



CANTO I. 



CCVIII. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise, 

Led by some tortuosity of mind, 

Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, 

And cry that they "the moral cannot find," 
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies — 

Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

CCIX. 

The public approbation I expect, 

And befj they '11 take my word about the moral, 
Which I with their amusement will connect 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral); 
Meantime, they'll doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel: 
For fear some prudish reader should grow skittish, 
I've bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 

ccx. 

I sent it in a letter to the editor, 

Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 

1 'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost. 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All I can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXI. 

I think that with this holy new alliance 

I may insure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science. 

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly ; I 
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 

Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 

CCXII. 

' Non ego hoc ferrem cnlida juventa 
Consule Planco^'^ Horace said, and so 

Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 
Hint that some six or seven good years ago 

/Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta), 
I was most ready to return a blow, 

And would not brook at all this sort of thing 

In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 

ccxm. 

But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray — 

(I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
I ^ -"rht of a peruke the other day,) 

iicart is jiot much greener ; and, in short, I 
Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, 

And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
Have spent my life, both interest and principal. 
And deem not, wliat I deem'd, my soul invincible. 

CCXIV. 
No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 

The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
Whicn out of all the lovely things we see 

Evtracta emotions beautiful and new, 
Hived in our bosoms hke the bag o' the bee : 

Think's* thou the honey with those objects grew ? 
Alas ! 't was not in them, but in thy power, 
T; diHible, oven the. sweetness of a flower. 



ccxv. 

No more — no more — Oh! never more, my hear', 
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe 1 

Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse • 

The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse ; 

And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, 

Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgineut. 

CCXVL 

My days of love are over — me no more '' 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 

Can make the fool of which they made before — 
In short, I must not lead the life I did do : 

The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er ; 
The copious use of claret is forbid, too ; 

So, for a good old gentlemanly vice, 

I think I must take up with avarice. 

ccxvn. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 

Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure ; 

And the two last have left me many a token 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 

Now, hke Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken, 
"Time is, time was, time's past," a chyinic treasure 

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 

CC XVIII. 

What is the end of fame? 'tis but to fill 
A certain portion of uncertain paper • 

Some Uken it to climbing up a hill. 
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour ; 

For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill ; 
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," 

To have, when the original is dust, 

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes ol man? old Egypt's kbig, 

Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; 
But somebody or other, rummaging. 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid ; 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

ccxx. 

But I, being fond of true philosophy. 

Say very often to myself, " Alas ! 
AU things that have been born were born to die, 

And flesh (which death mows down to hay) is grass; 
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly. 

And if you had it o'er again — 't would pass — 
So thank your stars that matters are no worsi<. 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 

CCXXI. 
But for the present, gentle reader ! and 

Still gentler purchaser ! the bard — that 's I — 
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand. 

And so your humble servant, and good b3'0.' 
We meet again, if we should understand 

Each other; and if not, I shall not try 
Your patience further than by this short sa^^ij-,'^ 
'T were well if others foUow'd my example. 



CANTO 11. 



DON JUAN. 



57 



CCXXII, 

*' Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 

The world will find thee after many days." 
When Southey 's read, and Wordswoi th understood, 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes Are Southey's, every line ; 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 



CANTO II. 



Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 

It mends their morals ; never mind the pain : 

The best of mothers and of educations, 
In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain, 

Since in a way, that 's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 

riad he but been placed at a public school. 

In the third form, or even in the fourth, 
His daily task had kept his fancy cool. 

At least had he been nurtured in the north; 
Spain may prove an exception to the rule. 

But then exceptions always prove its worth — 
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 

III. 
I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 

If all things be consider'd : first, there was 
His lady mother, mathematical, 

A , never mind ; his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman — (that's quite natural. 

Or else the thing had hardly come to pass); 
A husband rather old, not much in unity 
With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

IV. 
Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis, 

And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 
And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes. 

And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; 
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 

The priest instructs, and so our life exhales. 
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 
Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. 

V. 
I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
rris there the mart of the colonial trade is 

(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel); * 
And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful ladies, 

Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
* can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 
3 B 2 7S 



Yl. 



An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle. 
No — none of these will do ; — and then their garb! 

Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
Upon such things would very near absorb 

A canto — then their feet and ancles ! — well. 
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready, 
(And so, my sober Muse — come let's be steady- — 

VII. 

Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, you mus*) — the veil 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 

While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
Flashes into the heart: — all sunny land 

Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 

To say my prayers — but never was there plann'd 

A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, 

Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 

vin. 

But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark; 
To stay there had not answer'd her intent. 

But why ? — we leave the reader in the dark — 
'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant, 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
And send him like a dove of promise forth, 

IX. 

Don Juan bade hi^ valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lecture and some money: for four springs 

He was to travel ; and, though Inez grieved 
(As every kind of parting has its stings), 

She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed; 
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 

X. 
In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 

Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 
For naughty children, who would rather play 

(Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool ; 
Infants of three years old were taught that day, 

Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : 
The great success of Juan's education 
Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 
Juan embark'd — the ship got under weigh, 

The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay. 

As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough 
And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 

Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough 
And there le stood to take, and take again, 
His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain, 

XII. 
I can't but say it is an awkward sight 

To see one's native land receding throuah 
The growing waters — it unmans one quire ; 

Especially when life is rather new : 
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white 

But almost every other country's blue, 
When, gazing on them, mystified bv di/i-lancc. 
We enter on our nautical existence 



.•>73 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAISIO II 



XIII. 

So Juan stood be^ilder'd on the deck : 

Ti»e wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore, 

And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 
From which away so fair and fast they bore. 

The best of remedies is a beef-steak 
Against sea-sickness ; try it, sir, before 

You sneer, and I assure you this is true. 

For I have found it answer — so may you. 

XIV. 

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, 
Beheld his native Spain receding far : 

First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 
Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 

There is a sort of unexpress'd concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 

At leaving even the most unpleasant people 

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave — 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife. 

So that he had much better cause to grieve 
Than many persons more advanced in life ; 

And, if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife, 

No doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 

By Babel's water, still remembering Sion ; 
I 'd weep, but mine is not a weeping muse. 

And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 
Young men should travel, if but to amuse 

Themselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 

While his salt tears dropt into the salt sea, 
•* Sweets to the sweet ;" (I like so much to quote : 

You must excuse this extract, 't is where she, 
The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 

Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he 
Ri^flected on his present situation, 
And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 
" Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell !" he crisd, 

" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
Bat die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 

Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is o'er, 
farewell, too, dearest Juha!"— (here he drew 
tlor letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX. 

»* And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 

Than I resien thine image, oh ! my fair ! 
Or think of any thuig, excepting thee ; 

A mmil disea-sed no remedy car physic" — 
Here iJie shin gave a lurck, and he grew sea-sick). 



XX. 

" Sooner shall heaven kiss eartli — (here he fell sicker\ 
Oh, Juha! what is every other woe! — 

(For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor — 
Pedro! Battista ! help me down below). 

Julia, my love! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) 
Oh, Julia! — (this cursed vessel jntches so)— 

Beloved Julia! hear me still beseechmg — 

(Here he grew inarticulate with retching). 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art. 

The loss of love, the treachery of friends. 

Or death of those we doat on, when a part 
Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends : 

No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 

Love 's a capricious power ; I 've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold. 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 

Against all noble maladies he 's bold. 
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet. 

Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh; 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 

About the lower region of the bowels ; 
Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign. 

Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how GiH» 
Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar. 
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before? 

XXIV. 
The ship, called the most holy " Trinidada," 

Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 
For there the Spanish family INIoncada 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born ; 
They were relations, and for them he had a 

Letter of introduction, which the morn 
Of his departure had been sent him by 
His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand. 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land. 

His head-ache being increased by every billow ; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His birth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 
'T was not without some reason, for the wind 

Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
And though 't was not much to a naval mind. 

Some landsmen would have look'd ? little pale, 
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 

At sunset they began to take in sa'l. 
For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, 
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 



r^A-r^ n. 



DON JUAN. 



379 



XXVII. 

At one o'clock, the -wind with sudden shift 
Tliiesv the ship right into the trough of the sea, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 

Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy, 

Tlie rudder tore away: 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, ana there were four feet water found. 

XXVIII. 

One gang of peopie insiantlv was put 
Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 

To get up part of the cargo, and what not. 
But they could not come at the leak as yet ; 

At last they did get at it really, but 
Still their salvation was an even bet : 

The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling. 

While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, 

XXIX. 

Into the opening ; but ail such ingredients 

Would have been vain, and they must have gone down 

Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 

But for the pumps : I 'm glad to make them known 

To all the brother-tars who may have need hence, 
For fifty tons of water were upthrown 

By them per hour, and they had all been undone 

But for the maker, Mr, Man, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce. 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 

A squall came on, and, while some guns broke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 

XXXI. 

There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset : 
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 

And made a scene men do not soon forget; 
For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 

Or any other thing that brings regret. 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks : 

Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers 

And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away, 

Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went, 

The main-mast foilow'd : but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and bafHed our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted). 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXIII. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 

Was going on oome people were unquiet ; 

That passengers would find it much amiss 

To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seamen, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot. 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

P or frog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 



XXXIV. 

There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirji calms 

As rum and true religion ; thus it was, 
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung \. lijns. 

The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright cured tht, 
qualms 

Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws : 
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 

XXXV. 
Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 

Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years. 
Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 

It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 
As if Death were more dreadful by his door 

Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears. 
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 
Thought it would be becoming to die drunk, 

XXXVI. 
" Give us mpre grog," they cried, " for it will be 

All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ' 
'Tis true that death awaits both you and mc, 

But let us die like men, not sink below 
Like brutes :" — and thus his dangerous post kept he 

And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 
And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor. 
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

XXXVII. 
The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 

And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 
Repented all his sins, and made a last 

Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 
Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 

To quit his academic occupation. 
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
To follow Juan's wake hke Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 
But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were gonn 
The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shon;, 

The vessel sv/am, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpsb of sunshine set some hands to bale- 
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail. 

XXXIX. 
Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd. 

And for the moment it had some effect ; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast 

Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect ? 
But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 

'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 
And though 't is true that man can '•<nly die once, 
T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 
There winds and waves had hurl'd them,and from thenri*. 

Without their will, they carried them away ; 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good ucu 
Still swam — though not exactly liVo a durk. 



h'dO 



BYRONS WORKS. 



CANTO 1} 



XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 

But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out mucli longer ; the distress 

Was also great with which they had to cope, 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 

Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XLII. 

Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew 
A gale, and in the fere and after hold 

Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
All this, the most were patient, and some bold. 

Until the chams and leathers were worn through 
Of all our pumps: — a wreck complete she roll'd, 

At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 

Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 

Could do no more ; he was a man in years, 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea. 

And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be. 

But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children. 

Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLW. 

The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone. 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 
Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 

That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution. 

Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 

Their best clothes as if going to a fair ; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun. 

And gnashM their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair ; 
And others wenv on, as they had begun. 

Getting the beats out, being well aw^are 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVI. 
The worst of all was, that in their condition. 

Having been several days in great distress, 
*T was difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suffering less : 
Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress ; 
Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 
Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 
But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 

Six flasks of wine • and they contrived to get 
/* portion of their oeef up from below. 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
Hut scirce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 
Th*-,!! ili^re was rum, eight* gallons in a puncheon. 



XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale : 

And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw m by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 

'T was twilight, for the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one whose hate is inask'd but to assail; 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 

And the dim desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

L. 

Some trial had been making at a raft. 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd. 
If any laughter at such times could be. 

Unless with people who too much have quaff'd. 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 

Half epileptical, and half hysterical : 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose. 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
For yet they sirove, although of no great use: 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
The boats put off" o'ercrowded with their crews j 

She gave a heoi, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell ! 

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave ; 
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell. 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. 

And down she suck'd with her the whirhng wave. 
Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

LIII. 
And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd. 

Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 
Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV. 
The boats, as stated, had got off" before, 

And in them crowded several of the crew; 
And yet their present hope was hardly more 

Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, 
There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; 

And then they weie too man}', though so few- 
Nine in the cutter, tlirty in the boat. 
Were counted in them whcv they got afloat. 



r.AJsro Ji. 



DON JUAN. 



581 



LV. 

A.11 the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and, what 's worse, alas ! 

vVhen over Catholics the ocean rolls, 
They must wait several weeks, before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, 
Because, till people know what 's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. 

LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case ; 

Battista (though a name call'd shortly Tita) 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss. 
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 

They could not rescue him, although so close, 
Because the sea ran higher every minute. 
And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 

His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 
For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness, — stood howling on the brink, 
Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!) 

No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; 
And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 
Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 
He also stuff'd his money where he could 

About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would. 

Not knowing what himself to say or do. 
As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get through. 
And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 
Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 
'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet. 

That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 
Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 

They dared not take it in for all the breeze ; 
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 

And made them bale without a moment's ease, 
So rhat themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 
A.nd the pour little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 
Nme souls more W3nt in her: the long-boat still 

Kept above water, with an oar for mast. 
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 

Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast ; 
Though every wave roU'd menacing to fill. 

And present peril all before surpass'd. 
They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter, 
And also for the biscuit-casks and butler. 



LXII. 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
Of the continuance of the gale : to run 

Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 
Was all that for the present could be done ; 

A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
Was served out to the people, who begun 

To faint, and damaged bread wet through the baes^ 

And most of them had little clothes but rags. 

LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : 

They did their best to modify their case. 

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion. 

While t' other half were laid down in their place, 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat. 

With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 

LXIV. 

'T is very certain the desire of life 

Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians. 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions. 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 

'T is said that persons living on annuities 

Are longer lived than others, — God knows why, 
Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is, 

That some, I really think, do never die ; 
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is. 

And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : 
In my young days they lent me cash that way, 
W"hich I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 
'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 

They live upon the love of life, and bear 
More than can be believed, or even thought. 

And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear j 
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot. 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there- 
She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

LXVII. 
But man is a carnivorous production. 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day • 
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 

But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey: 
Although his anatomical construction 

Bears vegetables in a grumbling way. 
Your labouring people think, beyond all question, 
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

Lxvin. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a caiin, 
And though at first their strength it might renew 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
LuU'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they lelt a qualm. 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hoarding it with due Drecision * 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO n. 



LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? 

Tli^y hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men ! 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, 

But, as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 

It \vould have been more wise to save their victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air. 
And ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child : 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there. 

The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild: 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 

Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide. 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died. 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws. 

With some remorse received (though first denied). 
As a great favour, one of the fore-paws, 

Which he divided witfi Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd -t, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 

Blister'd and scorch'd ; and, stagnant on the sea, 
rhcy lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 

Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 
riiey glared upon each other — all was done. 

Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 
'I'he longings of the cannibal arise 
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 
At length one whisper'd his companion, who 

Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 
And then into a hoarser murmur gi-ew. 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 
And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 

'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found: 
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 
And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIV. 
Pu*. ere they came to this, they that day shared 

Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes ; 
And then they look'd around them, and despair'd. 

And none to be the sacrifice would choose ; 
At length the lots were torn up and prepared, 

But of materials that must shock the muse — 
Having no paper, for the want of better, 
Thpy took by force from Juan JuUa's letter. 

LXXV. 
The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
Lull'd even the savage nunger which demanded, 

J. ike the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
Nor.e in particular hau sought or plann'd it, 

'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
By n'tiich none weie permitted to be neuter — 
4na Uie Jot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 



LXXVI. 

He but requested to be bled to death : 

The surgeon had his instruments and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath. 

You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died as born, a Catholic in faith. 

Like most in the belief in which they 're brea, 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 

And then held out his jugular and wrist. 

LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee. 

Had his first choice of morsels for his pains •, 

But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins: 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea. 

And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow — 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXVIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 

W^ho were not quite so fond of animal food ; 
To these was added Juan, who, before 

Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 
Feel now his appetite increased much more ; 

'T was not to be expected that he should. 
Even in extremity of their disaster. 
Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 
'T was better that he did not ; for, in fact. 

The consequence was awful in the extreme : 
For they, w^ho were most ravenous in the act. 

Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! 
And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd^ 

Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream. 
Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing. 
And, with hysEna laughter, died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 

And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows ; 
And some of them had lost their recollection. 

Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 
But others ponder'd on a new dissection. 

As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 
Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 
For having used their appetites so sadly. 

LXXXL 
And next they thought upon the master's mate. 

As fattest ; but he saved himself, because. 
Besides being much averse from such a fate. 

There were some other reasons : the first was, 
He had been rather indisposed of late, 

And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 
Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 
By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXIL 
Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd. 

But it was used sparingly, — some were afraid. 
And others still their appetites constrain'd, 

Or but at times a little supper made ; 
All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 

Chewmg a piece of bamboo, and some leao 
At length they caught two boobies and a mddy 
And then thev left oflT eating the dead body 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAN. 



58c 



LXXXIII. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino condescends 
To ea- me head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he poUtely ends 
His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty. 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain. 
For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 

When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water's worth: 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your birth, 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell. 

You 'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet. 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher. 
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 

They wrung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 

Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet 

As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 

They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd ; 

Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black, 
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 

To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 

To taste of heaven— if this be true, indeed. 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXVII. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew. 

And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
Was more robust and hardy to the view, 

But he died early ; and when he was gone. 
His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 

One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done! 
I can do nothing!" and he saw him thrown 
Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII. 
The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit, held aloof his fate; 
Liitle he said, and now and then he smiled. 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 

His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 

And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come. 
And the bey's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 

Brigbten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
li.to his dyin2 rluld's mouth — but in vain. 



XC. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
And look'd upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 

Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope we/e past 

He watched it wistfully, until away 

'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't wa? cast 

Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering 

And gave no signs of life, save his hmbs f^uivering. 

XCI. 

Now over-head a rainbow, bursting through 

The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue : 
And all within its arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving like a banner free. 

Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

XCII. 

It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon, 
The airy child of vapour and the sun, 

Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermiHon, 
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 

Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion. 
And blending every colour into one, 

Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 

(For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen- 
It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope- 
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 

XCIV. 

About this time, a beautiful white bird. 
Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 

And plumage (probably it might have err'd 
Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 

And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
The men within the boat, and in this guise 

It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 

Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 

xcv. 

But in this case I also must remark, 

'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, 
Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 

Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 

P.eturning there from her successful search. 
Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 
They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

XCVI. 
With twilight it again came on to blow. 

But not v/ith violence -, the stars shone out, 
The boat made way ; yet now they were so low 

They knew not where nor what they were abotil , 
Some fancied they saw land, and some said "No''' 

The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt- 
Some swore that they heard breakers, othe.i-s gun* 
And all mistook about the latter once. 



584 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAXTC II 



XCVII. 

\s morning broke, the light wind died away, 
When he who had the watch sung out, and swore 

If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray 
lie wish'd that land he never might see more : 

And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for 
shore ; 

For shore it was, and gradually grew 

Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 

XCVIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears. 

And others, lOoking with a stupid stare, 
(yould not yet separate their hopes from fears, 

And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
While 8 few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 

And at the bottom of the boat three were 
Asleep ; they shook them by the hand and head. 
And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

XCIX. 
The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 

They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind. 
And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 

Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
Proved even still & more nutritious matter. 

Because it left encouragement behind: 
They thought that in such perils, more than chance 
Had sent them this for their deliverance. 

C. 
The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast. 

And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 
Set by a current, toward it: they were lost 

In various conjectures, for none knew 
To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, 

So changeable had been the winds that blew ; 
Some thought it was Mount ^^tna, some the highlands 
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 

CI. 
J.ieantmie tKe current, with a rising gale, 

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 
Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 

Their living freight was now reduced to four ; 
And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 

To heave into the deep with those before. 
Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 
The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

CII. 
Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 

Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 
Such things, a mother had not known her son 

Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 

They perish'd, until wither'd to these few. 
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
h\ washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

cm. 

A > they drew nigh the land, which now was seen. 
Unequal m its aspect here and there, 

T'^.ey felt the freshness of its g-owing green. 
That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, 

.4 lid tell upon their glazed eyes as ^ screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 

i .'JVL-Iy seem'd any object that should sweep 

4 -jiv t^e vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 



CIV, 

The shore look'd wild, without the trace nf ina-p, 
And girt by formidable waves ; but thftv 

Were mad for land, and thus their course tliey ran» 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay • 

A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spra}, 

But, finding no place for their landing betier, 

They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. 

cv. 

But in his native stream, the Guadalqui\nr, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 

And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river, 
Had often turn'd the art to some account. 

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 

As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 

Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

CVI 

So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
The beach which lay before him, high and dry: 

The greatest danger here was from a shark. 
That carried off his neighbour by the thigh : 

As for the other two, they could not swim. 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

CVII. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
Which, providentially for him, was vvash'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas dash'd 

Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore 
The waters bea.t w hile he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea : 

cvm. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 

Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
From whose reluctant roar bis life he wrung. 

Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: 
And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung, 

Before the entrance of a chjf-worn cave, 
With just enough of life to feel its pain. 
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 

CIX. 
With slow and staggering effort he arose. 

But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for thoso 

Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 
But none of them appear'd to share his woes. 

Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd tliree. 
Who died two days before, and now had found 
An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 

ex. 

And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast. 
And down he sunk, and, as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd ; 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 

Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), 
And, Uke a wither'd lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAN. 



585 



CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 

And time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood, and senses dim : 

\nd how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, 

Far Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. 

cxir. 

Elis eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness: he thought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposed ; 
And then once m.ore his feelings back were brought, 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 

'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
Recall his answering spirits back from death: 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Vs gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To these kind efforts made a low reply. 

CXIV. 

fhen was *he cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 

Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
And hci ti ansparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 

And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 

A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 

CXV. 

And lifting him with care into the cave, 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 

Young yet her elder, and ')f brow less grave. 
And more robust cf figure, — then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 

Light to the rocks which roof'd them, which the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She viras, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold. 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roU'd 
In braids behind, and, though her stature were 

Even oi the highest for a female mould. 

They nearly reach'd- her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 

cxvn. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction, for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 

'Tis as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 
3C 79 



cxvni. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pute lye 
Like twilight rosy still with the sot sun ; 

Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she "A'as one 

Fit for the model of a statuary 

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done — 

I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 

CXIX. 

I 'II tell you why I say so, for 't is just 

One should not rail without a decent cause : 

There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

CXX. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 

Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 

Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave ; 

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues v.'hen out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXI. 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 
Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun ; 

Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 

But through them gold and gems profusely shone 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

CXXIL 

The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike : 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike. 

Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

CXXIJL 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 

With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, 
Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 

And have ten thousand delicate inventions , 
They made a most superior mess of broth, 

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 
But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer** 
Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

CXXIV. 
I '11 tell you who they were, this female pan , 

Lest they should seem princesses in disguise , 
Besides I hate all mystery, and that air 

Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize ■, 
And so, in short, the girls they really were 

They shall appear before your curiotis eyob. 
Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughte.: 
Of an old man who lived upon the water 



58G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO n 



cxxv. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 

But other speculations were, in sooth, 
Added to his connexion with the sea, 

Perhaps, not so respectable, in truth : 
A little smuggling, and some piracy, 

Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 

Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men, 
Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 

For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, 
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 

The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 

Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade. 

By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

C XXVII. 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt. 
And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 

Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please. 

But this I know, it was a spacious building. 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIII. 

He had an only daughter call'd Haidee, 
The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles ; ' 

Besides so very beautiful was she. 

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: 

Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
So grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a better in his turn. 

CXXIX. 

And walking out upon the beach below 
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 

Insensible,— not dead, but nearly so, — 

Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 

But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know. 
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound. 

As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 

A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 

cxxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 

Was not exactly the best way to save. 
But like conveying to the cat the mouse. 

Or people in a trance into their grave; 
Because the good old man had so much "vovj," 

Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 
lie would have hospitably cured the stranger, 
And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

CXXXI. 
And therefore, with hei maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid rches) 
f'o place him in the cave for present rest: 

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guest: 

And their conapassion grew to such a size. 
It opfin'd half the turnpike gates to heaven — 
(Sair.'' J'aij' says 'i -s the toll which must be given) 



C XXXII. 

They made a fire, but such a fire as they 
Upon the moment could contrive with such 

Materials as were cast up round the bay. 

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch 

Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 

But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty 

That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 

CXXXIII. 

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse. 

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 

His couch ; and that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 

They also gave a petticoat apiece. 

She and her maid, and promised by day-break 

To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish. 

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

CXXXIV. 

And thus they leil him to his lone repose : 
Juan slept hke a top, or like the dead, 

Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows). 
Just for the present, and in his luU'd head 

Not even a vision of his former woes 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread 

Unwelcome visions of our former years. 

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

cxxxv. 

Young Juan slept all dreamless : — ^but the maid 
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den, 

Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd. 
And turn'd, beUeving that he call'd again. 

He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said 
(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen), 

He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 

That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went. 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant. 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent. 

And Zoe spent hers as most women do. 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in nature's good old college. 

CXXXVII. 
The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 

Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
His rest ; the rushing of the neigbouring rill. 

And the young beams of the excluded sun. 
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; 

And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
Had sufTer'd more — his hardships were comparativ i 
To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 

cxxxvni. 

Not so Haidee ; she sadly toss'd and tumbled. 
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 

Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumnled 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled. 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who snort, 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — 

They knew not what to think of such a freak. 




•^^# 



[Kl ^ © E [E = 



CANiO 11. 



DON JUAN. 



58' 



CXXXIX. 

But up she got, and up she made them get, 
With some pretence about the sun, that makes 

S^veet skies jtist when he rises, or is set ; 
And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 

Bright Phcebus, while the mountains still are wet 
With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 

And night is flung off like a mourning suit 

Worn for a husband, or some other brute. 

CXL. 

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 

I have sat up on purpose all the night. 

Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate ; 

And so all ye, who would be in the right 
In health and purse, begin your day to date 

From day-break, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 

Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 

CXLI. 

And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curbed into a blush. 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base. 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread, 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 

CXLII. 

And down the cliff the island virgin came. 

And near the cave her quick hght footsteps drew. 

While the sun smiled on her with his first flame. 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew. 

Taking her for a sister ; just the same 

iNIistake you would have made on seeing the two, 

Althoush the mortal, quite as fresh and fair. 

Had all the advantage too of not being air. 

cxLin. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd. 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept : 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe 
(For sleep is a%A;ful), and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death, 
Bent with hush'd Ups that drank his scarce-dra\^•n breath. 

CXLIV. 
And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, 

As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air : 
But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frj'ing. 

Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it, 
She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLV. 
She knew that the best feelings must have victual. 

And that a ship^^Teck'd youth would hungry be ; 
K3side.=, being less in love, she ya^^m'd a little. 

And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea ; 
And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 

I can't say that she gave them any tea. 
But there were eg^t fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey. 
With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 



CXL VI. 

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan • 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small nand, 
And \vithout word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 

And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 

CXLVII. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek, 
A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 

On the snow tops of distant hills ; the streak 
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay. 

Where the blue veins look'd shadov^y , shrunk, and weali , 
And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 

Which welgh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 

Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 

CXLVIII. 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
LuU'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wTcath, 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 

In short, he was a very prettv fellow. 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather vellow. 

CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again. 
But the fair face which met his eves, forbade 

Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 

For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
For Juan, so that even when ho prav'd, 

He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy. 

To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose. 

And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek 
The pale contended ^^•ith the purple rose, 

As with an effort she began to speak ; 
Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, 

Although she told him in good modem Greek 
With an Ionian accent, low and sweet. 
That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 

CLL 
Now Juan could not understand a word. 

Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear. 
And her voice was the warble of a bird, 

So soft, so sweet, so dehcately clear. 
That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 

The sort of soimd we echo with a tear, 
Without knowing why — an overpowering tonf?. 
Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 

CLH. 
And Juan jrazed, as one who is awoks 

By a distant organ, doub*-/'^ if he H^ 
Not vet a dreamer, till the speii is broke 

Bv the watchman, or some such reality, 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock . 

At least it is a heavy sound to me. 
Who like a morning slumber — for the mq\u 
Shows stars and worn"** 'n a b«3tter !ighi. 



588 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CATJTO 



CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, 
Or sleep, or \\ hatsoe'er it was, by feeling 

A. most prodigious appetite : the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
Of the new fire which Zoe kept up, kneeling 

To stir her viands, made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 

CLIV. 

Rut beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 
j Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, 

And when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on, 
Others are fair and fertile, among which. 
This, though not large, was one of the, most rich. 

CLV. 

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
Tliat the old fable of the Minotaur— 

From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, 
Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 

A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 
The allegory) a mere type, no more, 

That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle. 

To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef— I won't say much of beer, 

Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 
From this my subject, has no business here : — 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

That beef and battles both were owing to her. 

CLVII. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 

His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
A sioht on which he had not lately gazed. 

As all his latter meals had been quite raw. 
Three or four things for which the Lord he praised. 

And, feehng still the famish'd \ailture gnow. 
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 
[ie ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 

Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to ^ee 

Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 
But Zoe, being, older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
That famish'd people must be slowly nursed, 
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state. 
Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

Tlie sea-sliore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snalch'd it, and refused another morsel, 

Saving, h*^, ha I gorged enough to make a horse ill. 



CLX. 

Next they — he being naked, savf 't 'at'.er'd 
Pair of scarce decent trowsa / - fv'jnt to work 

And in the fire his recent rags *h'^y scatter'd, 
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk,^ 

They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches. 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breecnes. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
But not a word could Juan comprehend. 

Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end / 

And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her protege and friend, 

Till, pausing at the last her breath to take. 

She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs. 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye. 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy. 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw exprpss'd 

A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. 

CLxni. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
And words repeated after her, he took 

A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise. 

No doubt, less of her language than her look : 

As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 

Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta belter 

From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 

'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 

By female hps and eyes — that is, I mean. 
When both the teacher and the taught are young. 

As was the case, at least, where I have been ; 
They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong 

They smile still more, and then there intervene 
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; — 
I learn'd the little that I know by this : 

CLXV. 
That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers, 
Much English I cannot pretend to speak. 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers. 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I hate your poets, so read none of those, 

CLXVL 
As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 

A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 
Where I, like other "dogs, have had my day," 

Like other men, too, may have had my passicin— 
But that, like other things, has pass'd away : 

And all her fools whom I cvuli lay the lash on. 
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me 
But dreams of what has been, no more to bo. 



CANTO It. 



DON JUAN. 



58l> 



CLXVII. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun. 
Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun: 

He was in love — as you would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress, — so was she 

Just in the way we very often see. 

CLxvm. 

And every day by day-break — rather early 
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 

She came into the cave, but it was merely 
To see her bird reposing in his nest; 

And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 

Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth. 

As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

And every morn his colour fru-shlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence, 

'T was well, oecause health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence. 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 
Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 

CLXX 

>Vhile Venus fills the heart (without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good), 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, 
For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood. — 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: 
Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food ; 

But who is their purveyor from above 

Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXL 

When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 

A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
That ever made a youthful heart less steady. 

Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size ; 
But I have spoken of all this already — 

And repetition's tiresome and unwise, — 
Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 
Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 
Both were so young, and one so innocent, 

That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd 
To her, as 't were the kind of being sent. 

Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 
A something to be loved, a creature meant 

To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 
To render happy ; all who joy would win 
Must share it,~happiness was born a twin. 

CLXXIII. 
It, was such pleasure to behold him, such 

Enlargement of existence to partake 
Niature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 

To -WLtch. him slumbering, and to r^ce him wake. 
To hve with him for ever w^e too rr.uch ; 

But then the thought of parting made her quake : 
He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast 
Like a rich »vrerk — he: first lov^ and her last. 
3 c2 



CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon roU'd on, and fair Haide«? 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook: 
At last her father's prows put out to sea, 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Not as of yore to carry off an lo. 
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such other 
Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 

Without even the encumbrance of a brotlier, 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass : 

I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 

Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 

(For they must talk), and he had learnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For htlle had he wander'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the staU 
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 

With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore. 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host. 

With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter hke a lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, 
When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach. 

That spring-dew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! 
Few things surpass old wine : and they may preach 

Who please, — the more because they preach in vain,— > 
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter. 
Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 

The best of hfe is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 

or life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion : 
But to return, — get very drunk ; and when 
You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then, 

CLXXX. 
Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 

Some hock and soda-water, thon you -11 kno'.^- 
A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 

For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow. 
Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 

Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow. 
After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughtei , 
Vie with that draught of hock and sodji-watm. 



^90 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cAivTo n 



CLXXXI. 

1 he coast — I think it was the coast that 1 
Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast — 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untoss'd, 

And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd 

By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 

Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

cLxxxn. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun. 

Though daily service was her only mission. 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses. 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 

Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill. 
Which then seems as if the %vhole earth it bounded. 

Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still. 
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 

On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 
Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 
With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 
And thus they wander'd forth, and hand m hand, 

Over the shining pebbles and the shells. 
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand. 

And in the worn and wild receptacles 
Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 

In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells. 
They turn'd to rest; and, each clasped by an arm. 
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 
They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 

Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 
They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 

Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; 
They heard the waves splash, asd the wind so low. 

And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 
Into each other — and, beholding this, 
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 

And beauty, all concentrating, like rays 
Into one focus kindled from above ; 

Such kisses as belong to early days, 
WTierc neart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 

And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze. 
Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 
1 think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 
By leriglh I mean duration ; theirs endured 

Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
reckon'd ; 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second: 
iTicy !)ad not spoken ; but they felt allured. 

As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
VVliic.li, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung — 
Tlicir hearts tne flowers from whence the honey sprung. 



CLXXXVIII. 

They were alone, yet not alone as they 
Who, shut in chambers, think it loneliness ; 

The silent ocean, and the star-light bay, 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less. 

The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
Around them, made them to each other press. 

As if there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach. 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other: though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language there,—- 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 

cxc. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 
Nor offer'd any; she had never heard 

Of plight and promises to be a spouse. 
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 

She was all which pure ignorance allows. 
And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 

And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 

Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored. 

And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion. 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 

If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,—- 

But by degrees their senses were restored. 
Again to be o'ercoine, again to dash on ; 

And, beating 'gainst Jds bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, 

So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
Was that in which the heart is always full. 

And, having o'er itself no further power. 
Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul. 

But pays off moments in an endless shower 
Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 
Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXCIII. 
Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 

So loving and so lovely — till then never, 
Excepting our first parents, such a pair 

Had run the risk of being danin'd for ever; 
And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 
And hell and purgatory — but forgot 
Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIV. 
They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moon-light ; and her white arm closp* 
Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies 

Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 

He hers until they end in broken gasps ; 
And thus they form a group that's quite antiqufc. 
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 



CAxro IJ. 



J)ON JUAN. 



591 



cxcv. 

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
Sustain 'd his head upon her bosom's charms, 

And now and then her eye to neaven is cast, 
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 

Pillow'd on her o'erflowing neart, which pants 

With all it granted, and with c'' it grants. 

CXCVI. 

An infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the mon)ent when it drains the breast, 
A devotee when soars the host in sight. 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor, when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest, 
Fee! rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 

CXCVII. 

For there it Ues so tranquil, so beloved, 
All that it hath of life with us is living ; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved. 
And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving. 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving ; 

There lies the thing we love with all its errors, 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCVIII. 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 

Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 
O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 

Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 
She aai her wave-worn love had made their bower. 

Where nought upon their passion could intrude, 
And all the stars that crowded the blue space 
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 
Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown. 

And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring 
To thetr. but mockeries of the past alone. 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring. 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet as real 
Torture is theirs — what they inflict they feel. 

CC. 
They 're right ; for man, to man so oft unjust. 

Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
A. waits them, treachery is all their trust ; 

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond? 
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover. 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. 

CCI. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 
Some mind their household, others dissipation. 

Some run away, and but exchange their cares. 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station j 

Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation. 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 

Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 



CCIL 

Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this ; 

Haidee was passion's child, born where the sun. 
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
Elsewhere was nothing — She had nought to fear, 
Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 

CCIIl. 

And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ! 

How much it costs us ! yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even conscience, too, has a tough job 
To make us understand each good old maxim. 
So good — I wonder Casilereagh don't tax 'em. 

CCIV. 

And now 't was done — on the lone shore were plighted 
Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 

Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, 

By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 
Their priest was solitude, and they were wed : 

And they were happy, for to their young eyes 

Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

ccv. 

Oh love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho (he sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be neuter — 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh Love ! thou art the very god of evil. 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

CCVL 

Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious, 

And jestest with the brows of mightiest men : 
Cassar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 

Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen ; 
Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 

Such worthies time will never see again : — 
Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 
They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

CCVII. 
Thou makest philosophers : there 's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories, quite practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure us 

How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), 
" Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us f" 
So said the royal sage, Sardanapalus. 

ccvm. 

But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon? 
I can't but say it seems t > me most truly a 

Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these th-ngs for us, and whenever new.y a 

Palpitation rises, 't is her boon, 
! Else how the devil 's »t that fresh features 
I Have such a charm for us ooor huiran treaiures • 



iV'2 



BYRON S WORKS. 



cAyro I. 



CCIX. 

1 liate incGJifsfancy — I loailie, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure t)<e mortal made 

or such quicksilver clay that in his breast 
No permanent foundation can be laid ; 

Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 
And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 

1 saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 

Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 

ccx. 

But soon philosophy came to my aid, 

And whisper'd, " think of every sacred tie !" 

•' I will, my dear philosophy !" I said, 

" But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven ! her eye ! 

1 '11 just inquire if she be wife or maid. 
Or neither — out of curiosity." 

"Stop!" cried philosophy, with air so Grecian 

(Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian) — 

CCXI. 

" Stop !" so I stopp'd. — But to return : that which 
Men call inconstancy is nothing more 

Than admiration due where nature's rich 
Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 

Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 
A lovely statue we almost aHore, 

This sort of adoration of the rtal 

Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 

CCXII. 
'Tis the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful. 

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies. 
Without which life would be extremely dull ; 

In short, it is the use of our own eyes. 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that flesh is form'd of liery dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling, 

For surely if we always could perceive 
In llic same object graces quite as killing 

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 
'T would save us many a heart-ache, many a shilling 

(For we must get them any how, or grieve), 
Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever. 
How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver ! 

CCXIV. 
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 

But changes night and day too, like the sky ; 
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 

And darkness and destruction as on high ; 
"But wheii it hatli been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, 

Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 
Pours forth at last tne heart's blood turn'd to tears, 
Which make the English cHmate of our years. 

ccxv. 

The liver is the lazaret of bile. 

But very rarely executes its function. 
For the first passion stays there such a while 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
lilke knoi5 of vipcrs on a dunghill's soil. 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
So (hnt all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
Lake earthquakes irom the iiidden fire call'd " central." 



CCXVI. 

In the mean time, without proceeding morx; 

In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before. 

That being about the number I'll allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee, to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO III. 



I. 

Hail, Muse ! et catera. — We left Juan sleeping, 
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast. 

And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping. 
And loved by a young heart too deeply bless'd 

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping. 
Or knew who rested there ; a foe to rest 

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years. 

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 

n. 

Oh, love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why 
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers 

And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers, 

And place them on their breast — but place to die — 
Thus the frail beings we vvould fondly cherish 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

III. 
In her first passion woman loves her lover, 

In all the others all she loves is love, 
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 

And fits her loosely — hke an easy glove. 
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her : 

One man alone at first her heart can move ; 
She then prefers him in the plural number, 
Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

IV. 
I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing 's pretty sure ; a woman planted 
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers), 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none^ 
But those who have ne'er end with only one. 

V. 
'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime. 
That love and marriage rarely can combine. 

Although they both are born in the samiMime, 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour 
Down to a very homely household savour. 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAN, 



5{)^ 



VI. 

There 's something of antipathy, as 't were, 
Between their present and their future state; 

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 

Is used, until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair? 
The same things change their names at such a rate ; 

For instance — passion in a lover's glorious, 

But m a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 

Tiiey sometimes also get a little tired 
(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond: 

The same things cannot always be admired. 
Yet 'tis "so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 

There's doubtless something in domestic doings 
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 

Romances paint at full length people's wooings. 
But only give a bust of marriages ; 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife. 

He would have written sonnets all his life? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 
All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 

The future states of both are left to faith, 
For authors fear description might disparage 

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath. 

And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage, 

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready. 

They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 

X. 

The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 
Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 

Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
Of fault or temper ruin'd the connexion — 

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar) ; 
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology, 

Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 
Haidec and Juan were not married, but 

The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 
Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 

The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 
Then, if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 

Tlie book which treats of this erroneous pair, 
Before the consequences grow too awful — 
'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 
80 



XIII. 

Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 

Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
But, more imprudent grown with every visit, 

Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
When we have what we like, 'tis hard to miss iU 

At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 

XIV. 

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 

For into a prime minister but change 
His title, and 't is nothing but taxation ; 

But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 

And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 

By winds and waves, and some important capture* 

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd. 

Although a squall or two had damped his raptures 

By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing tiiem like chapters, 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars. 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars 

XVI. 

Some he disposed of off" Cap-i Matapan, 
Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 

To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old) ; 

The rest — save here and there some richer one. 
Reserved for future ransom in the hold, — 

Were link'd alike ; as for the common people, he 

Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli, 

XVII. 

The merchandise was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey. 
Light classic articles of female want, 

Frencti stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot tray, 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIII. 

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff", a niackaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kitt<3;ia 
He chose from several animals he saw — 

A terrier too, which once had been a Briton's, 
Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance j 
These to secure in this strong blowing weather. 
He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 

XIX. 
Then having settled his marine affairs, 

Despatching single cruisers here anu iherc. 
His vessel having need of some repairs, 

He shaped his course to where his daugjiter fair 
Continued still her hospitable cares ; 

But that part of the coast being shoal ^nd ''a)"«,. 
And rough with reefs which ran out many a milt- , 
His port lay on the other side o' the islo 



694 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO III 



XX. 

\nd there he went ashore without delay, 
Having no custom-house or quarantine 

To ask him awkward questions on the way 
About the time and place where he had been : 

He left his ship to be hove down nest day, 
With orders to the people to careen ; 

ISo that all hands were busy beyond measure. 

In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, 
He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced lo roam ! 
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost. 
And bring our heai-ts back to their starting-post. 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 
After long travelling by land or water, 

Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
A female family 's a serious matter ; 

(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires — 
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter) : 

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler. 

And daughters sometimes run off" with the butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at his return 

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses : 

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 

To his memory, and two or three young misses 

Bom to some friend, who holds his wife and riches. 

And that his Argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser ; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 

lie may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier servente, or despise her ; 

And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one. 

Write odes on the inconstancy of woman. 

XXV. 

And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 

Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 
An honest friendship with a married lady — 

The only thing of this sort ever seen 
To last — of all connexions the most steady. 

And the true Hymen (the first 's but a screen) — 
Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 
I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a-day. 

XXVI. 
Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 
t)n seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad ; 

But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 
l>' '-ae true reason of his not being sad, 

Or that of any other strong emotion ; 
lie Wived ^ms child, and would have wept the loss of her, 
Uul icnevv tnti cause no more than a philosopher. 



XXVII. 

He saw his white wails shining in the sun. 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 

The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 

The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun. 
The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms (in the East all arm), and various dyes 

Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 

XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
Surprised at these unwonted sighs of idling. 

He hears — alas ! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears, 

The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; 

A pipe too and a drum, and, shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing, 

Descending rather quickly the declivity. 
Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
glancing, 

'Midst other indications of festivity. 
Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 

Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 
To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 
And further on a group uf Grecian girls, 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 
Were strung together hke a row of pearls ; 

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each too havmg 
Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 

(The least of which would set ten poets raving) , 
Thei; leader sang — and bounded to her song. 
With coral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 
And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays. 

Small social parties just begim to dine ; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze. 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
And sherbet coohng in the porous vase ; 

Above them their desert grew on its vine, 
The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, 
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store. 

XXXII. 
A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 

There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 
While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb. 

The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
His sober head majestically tame. 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
His brov/ as if in act to butt, and then. 
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIII. 
Their classical profiles, an*^ glittering dresses, 

Their large black eyes, and soft, seraphic cheeks. 
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses. 

The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
The innocence which happy childhood blesses. 

Made quite a picture of these little Greeks j 
So that the philosophical beholder 
Sigh'd for their sakes — that they should e'er grow viaar. 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAN 



595 



XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 

Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails. 
Of rocks bewitched that open to the knockers, 

Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 

Cransform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact) 

XXXV. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

For the imagination or the senses. 
Song, dance, \vine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastime in which no offence is ; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion. 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses. 
Dreading that chmax of all human ills, 
The inflammation of his weekly bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinnerj 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
That lures to flay alive the young beginner ; 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 

And long ne paused to reassure his eyes, 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know — (alas ! how men will lie) — 

That a report — (especially the Greeks) — 
Avouch'd his death (such people never die). 

And put his house in mourning several weeks. 
But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 

The bloom too had return'd to Haidee's cheeks ; 
Her tears too being return'd into their fount, 
She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 
Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling. 

Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure j 
The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 

A life which made them happy beyond measure. 
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 

Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure; 
'T was wonderful how things went on improving. 
While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 
Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast 

He flew into a passion, and in fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
TK' whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 

lo teach his people to be more exact. 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
do show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. 



XLI. 

You 're wrong. — He was the mildest-manner'd mau 
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 

With such true breeding of a gentleman. 
You never could divine his real thought ; 

No CO irtier could, and scarcely woman can 
Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 

Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 

He was so great a loss to good society. 

XLII. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray. 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way. 
Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 

He ask'd the meaning of this holiday ? 

The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fiU'd up a glass of wine, 

XLIII. 

And, without turning his facetious head, 
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air. 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 

" Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 

A second hiccup'd, "Our old master 's dead. 

You 'd better ask our mistress, who 's his heir." 

" Our mistress!" quoth a third : " Our mistress! — pooh! 

You mean our master — not the old, but new." 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not vv^hom 
They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell — 

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

The expression, and, endeavouring to resume 
His smile, requested one of them to tell 

The name and quality of his new patron. 

Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 

XLV. 

" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 

He is, nor whence he came — and little care , 
But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat, 

And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare j 
And if you are not satisfied with that. 

Direct your questions to my neighbour there ; 
He '11 answer all for better or for worse. 
For none likes more to hear himself converse." ' 

XLVI. 
I said that Lambro was a man of patience. 

And certainly he show'd the best of breeding. 
Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations. 

E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding ; 
He bore these sneers against his near relations, 

His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding. 
The insults too of every servile glutton. 
Who all the time were eating up his mutton. 

XLVII. 
Now in a person used to mur.h conunand— 

To bid men come, and go, and come again - 
To see his orders done too out of haiid — 

Whether the word was death, or but the chain- 
It may seem strange to find his manners bland ■ 

Yet such things are, .vhich I cannot explain, 
Though doubtless he who can command himself 
Is good to govern — almost as a Guetf, 



^96 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO in 



XLVIII. 

Not that he was not sometimes rash 0/ so, 
But never in his real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood ; 

\yilh him it never was a word and blow. 

His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, 

But in his silence there was much to rue. 

And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way. 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded. 
So httle they expecied him that day ; 

[f love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say. 

But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning, 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 



If all the dead could now return to life, 

(Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many; 

For instance, if a husband or his wife 
(Nuptial examples are as good as any). 

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife. 
The present weather would be much more rainy — 

Tears shed into the grave of the connexion 

Would share most probably its resurrection. 

^, LI. 

He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
A thing to human feelings the most trying. 

And harder for the heart to overcome 

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying ; 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb. 
And round its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LH. 

He enter'd in the house — his home no more. 

For without hearts there is no home — and felt 
The solitude of passing his own door 

Without a welcome ; there he long had dwelt. 
There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 

There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 
Over the innocence of that sweet child. 
His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LHI. 
He was a man of a strange temperament, 

Of mild demeanour though of savage mood, 
Moderate in all his habits, and content 

With temperance in pleasure as in food. 
Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 

For something better, if not wholly good ; 
His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 
Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 
llic lOve of power, and rapid gain of gold, 

The hardness by long habitude produced 
The dangerous life in which he had grown old. 

The mercy he had granted oft abused. 
The sights he was accustom'd to behold, 

The wild seas and wila men with whom he cruised, 
Had cost his enemies a long repentance, 
An<l made oim a pood friend, but bad acquaintance. 



LV. 

But something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays. 

Such as Ut onward to the golden fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days: 

'T is true he had no ardent love for peace ; 
Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise ; 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 

LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 

A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystals, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed 
On that beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 

A lonely pure affection unopposed: 

There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 

And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blindness^ 

LVIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock : 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging — 
Their fury being sp*^"" 'jy its own shock, — 

Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 

It IS a hard, although a common case. 

To find our children running restive — they 
In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 

Our httle selves refcrm'd in finer clay; 
Just as old age is creeping on apace. 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day 
They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 
But in good company — the gout and stone. 

LX. 
Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner); 
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin ii^r^J 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the fireside (a sight to touch a sinner). 
A lady with her daughter or her nieces 
Shine Jike a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. 

LXI. 
Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate. 

And stood within his hall at eventide ; 
Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride: 
An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before thfm, and fair slaves on every side: 
Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mosilj 
Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly. 



CANTO in. 



DON JUAN. 



597 



LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb ana pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats, 
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishes 

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use. 

Lxni. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 
And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast. 

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 

In small fine China cups came in at last — 

Gold cups of filigree, made to secure 

The hand from burning, underneath them placed ; 

Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too, were boil'd 

Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIV. 

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
Of velvet panels, each of different hue. 

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid : 
And round them ran a yellow border too ; 

The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 

Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 

From poets, or the moralists their betters. 

LXV. 

These oriental writings on the wall. 

Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors, adapted to recall. 

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, 
And took his kingdom from him. — You will find, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, 

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A. beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 

A genius who has drunk himself to death, 
A rake turn'd methodistic or eclectic — 

(For that's the name they like to pray beneath) — 
But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 

Are things that really take away the breath, 
And show that late hours, wine, and love, are able 
To do not much less damage than the table. 

LXVIL 
Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 
Their sofa occupied three parts complete 

Of the apartment — and appeav 'd quite new ; 
The velvet cushions — (for a throne more meet) — 

Were scarlet, from whose glowaig centre grew 
A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 
Bleridian-like, were seen all light 'o issue. 

Lxvin. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain. 
Had done their work of splendour, Indian mats 

And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain. 
Over tlie floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

-Ind dwarfs and blacks, and such hke things, that gain 
Their bread as ministers and favourites— (that 's 

To say, by degradation) — mingled there 

As plentiful as in a court or fair. 
3D 



LXIX. 

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver : by command, 

The greater part of these were ready sprea** 
With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine — 
Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 

LXX. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks— one was of pale yellow; 

Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 

'Neath v-^hich her breast heaved like a little billow , 

With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas. 
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow. 

And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 

LXXL 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm. 
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould ; 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
And clinging as if loth to lose its hold. 

The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 

That e'er by precious metal was held in.^ 

LXXIL 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar, above her instep roU'd,^ 

Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand 
Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fola 

Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ,' 

Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 

About the prettiest ankle in the v/orld. 

Lxxin. 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 

Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 
Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 

Her person * if allow'd at large to run ; 
And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shm» 
Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began 
To offer his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXIV. 
Round her she made an atmosphere of hfe, 

The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 
They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 

With all we can imagine of the skies, 
And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 

Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
Her overpowering presence made ■"ou feel 
It would not oe idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 
Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tmgoj 

(It is the country's custom), but in vain; 
F<r those large black eyes were so blackly frhige.>, 

The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stam, 
And in their native beauty stood avenged . 

Her nails were touch'd \vith henna ; but again 
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 
They could not look more rosv tbin beforf" 



.598 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LANTO in 



LXXVI. 

(he lienna should be deep!/ dyed to make 

The skin relieved appear more fairly fair : 
She had no need of this — day ne'er will break 

On mountain tops more heavenly white than her: 
Die eye might doubt if it were well awake, 

She was so like a vision ; I might err, 
But Shakspeare also says 'tis very silly 
"To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 

LXXVII. 
Juari had on a shawl of black and gold, 

But a white baracan, and so transparent, 
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold. 

Like small stars through the milky way appare-.t 
His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, 

An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't 
Surmounted as its clasp— a glowing crescent, 
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

LXXVIII. 

And now they were diverted by their suite. 

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 

Which made their new establishment complete ; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it : 

His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme — he seldom sung below it. 

He being paid to satirize or flatter, 

As the psalm says, "inditing a good matter." 

I.XXIX. 

He praised the present and abused the past, 

Reversing the good custom of old days. 
An eastern itnti-jacobm at last 

He turii'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 
For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 

By his seeming independent in his lays, 
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 
With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw. 

LXXX. 
He was a man who had seen many changes. 

And always changed as true as any needle, 
His polar star being one which rather ranges. 

And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wheedle : 
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 

And bemg fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill), 
He lied with such a fervour of intention- 
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 
But he had genius — when a turncoat has it 

The "vates irritabilis" takes care 
l"1iat without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 

Even good men like to make the public stare: — 
i?ut to my subject — let me see — what was it? 

Oh !— the third canto— and the pretty pair— 
Tnoir loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode 
Oi livuig in their insular abode. 

Lxxxn. 

Thoir noet. a sad trimmer, but no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow, 
iia(i been the favourite of full many a mess 

Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; 
,\nd thoujrh his meaning they could rarely guess, 

Y».t siiii they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
I'hr giorious meed of popular applause, 
' »f which the first ne'er knows tb e second cause. 



Lxxxni, 

But now being lifted mfo high soo'^ty, 
And having pick'd up SG/erd jdds ar.d ends 

Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety, 

He deem'd, being in a lone isle among ii lends. 

That without any danger of a riot, hs 

Might for long lying make himself amends ; 

And, singing as he sung in his warm youth. 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mongstthe Arabs, Turks, and Frawks, 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations ^ 

And, having hved with people of all ranks, 
Had something ready upon most occasi^yns— 

Which got him a fesv presents and some thanks. 
He varied with some skill his adulations ; 

To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing. 

He gave the different nations something national ; 

'T was all the same to him—" God save the King," 
Or " Ca ira,''^ according to the fashion all ; 

His muse made increment of any thing, 
From the high lyrical to the low rational : 

If Pindar sang horse-races', what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 

In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain, he 'd make a ballad or romance on 

The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 

Would be old Goethe's— (see what says de Staeli 
In Italy, he 'd ape the " Trecentisti ;" 
In Greece, he 'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' yc 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — ■ 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian rnuse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' "Islands of the Bless'd." 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreani'd that Greece might still be free ; 

For, standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis* 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted tnem at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were th^^y? 



CjiNTO III. 



DON JUAN. 



5_Q0 



And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

Tht heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate iiito hands like mine? 

T is something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must ice but weep o'er days more bless'd ? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound hke a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, "Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come!" 
'Tis but the li\-ing who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup v/ith Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine; 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend j 
Tliat tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sowTi, 
The Heracleidan blood miffht own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 



But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade 
I see their glorious black eyes shine-, 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual nmrmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die ; 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 



LXXX\1I. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young. 
Yet in these times he might have dene much worse 

His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 

Of others' feehng ; but they are such lia.rs. 

And take all colours — hke the hands of dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 

But words are things, and a small drop of ink 

Falling like dew upon a thought, j)roduces 
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think 

'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses. 
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 

Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, 
Sm-vives liimself, his tomb, and all that 's his. 

LXXXIX. 
And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 

His station, generation, even his nation, 
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 

In chronological commemoration, 
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's statioi,, 
In digging the foundation of a closet, 
May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

XC. 
And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind- 
Depending more upon the historian's style 

Tlian on the name a person leaves behind: 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyie - 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks. 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

XCI. 
Milton 's the prince of poets — so w^e say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine ; 
An independent bemg m nis day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine , 
But his life falling into Johnson's way, 

We're told this great high priest of ail the Kin* 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse. 
For the first Mrs. Milton Jeft his house. 



fiOO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAXTU Ih 



XCII. 

A.11 th3se are, certes, entertaining facts, 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; 
Like Titus' youth, and Ceesar's earliesr acts; 

Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes) ; 
Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story. 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XCIIL 

All are not moraUsts hke Southey, when 
He prated to the world of "Pantisocracy ;" 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhii-ed, who then 
Season'd his pedlar po-^ms with democracy ; 

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

XCIV. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
Tne very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 

Their loyal treason, renegado vigour, 

Are good manure for their more bare biography. 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birth-day of typography: 

A. clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excursion," 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 

Between his own and others' intellect; 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 

Joanna Soulhcote's Shiloh and her sect. 
Are things which in this century don't strike 

The public mind, so few are the elect ; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities. 

XCVL 
But let me to my story: I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
Leaving my people to proceed alone. 

While I soliloquize beyond expression; 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session : 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

xcvn. 

I know that what our neighbours call ^'' longueurs''^ 
(We've not so good a word, but have the thing 

In that complete perfection which msures 
An epic from Bob Southey every spring) — 

Form not the trut temptation which allures 
The reader; but 'twould not be hard to bring 

Some fine examples of the epopee, 

lo prove its grand mgredient is ennui. 

xcvm. 

We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps ; 

Wo feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, 
To show with what complacency he creeps, 

With his dear ♦' Waggoners," around his lakes ; 
He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps — 

<)( ocean? — no, of air; and then he makes 
Another ouicrv for " a little boat," 
Aud ariv^ls stsas lo set it well afloat. 



XCIX. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal pUun, 
And Pegasus runs restive in his " waggon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's wain? 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon? 

Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain. 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 

And he must needs mount nearer to the mooii, 

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 



"Pedlars," and "boats," and "waggons !" Oh ! ye shades 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? 

That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss- 

The " little boatman " and his " Peter Bell " 

Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel !" 

CL 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone. 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone, 

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; — 

Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee J 

CIL 

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tov/er. 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer 

CIII. 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty dove- 
What though 't is but a pictured image strike — 
That painting is no idol, 't is too like. 

CIV. 
Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 

In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 
But set those persons down with me to pray, 

And you shall see who has the propsresi notion 
Of getting into heaven the shortest way; 

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great wholci 
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

cv. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood. 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er. 

To where the last Caesarean fortress stood. 
Ever-green forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 

How have I loved the twihght hour and thee! 



;^A7 • / ///. 



DON JUAN. 



60 



CVI. 

The slfrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
Making then- summer lives one ceaseless song, 

\\ ere the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
And vesper-oell's that rose the boughs along j 

The sfvectre huntsman of Onesii's line, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, 

Which learn'd from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 

cvn. 

Oh Hesperus ! ^ thou bringest aU good things- 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. 
The welcome stall to the o'cviabour'd steer'; 

Whate'er of peace about our J, earthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household goii protect of dear, 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 



CANTO lY. 



CVIIl. 

Soft hour .'6 which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way. 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 

Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 

CIX. 

U'hen Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd. 

Amidst the roar of hberated Rome-, 

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd. 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb :' 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

ex. 

But I 'm digressing : what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 
To do wth the transactions of my hero, 

More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's 
Sure my invention must be down at zero, 

And I grown one of many " wooden spoons " 
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please 
To dub the last of honours in degrees). 

CXI. 
I feel this tediousness will never do — 

'T is being too epic, and I must cut down 
(In C(jpying) this long canto into two : 

They '11 never find it out, unless I own 
The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 

And then as an improvement 'twill be shown: 
f '11 prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 
From Aristotle passim. — See UoirjriKTjs. 



****** 



3ii2 



HI 



Nothing so difficult as a beginnmg 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end": 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we fend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from^ heaven for sinning; 

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, " 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 

n. 

But time, which brings all beings to their level. 
And sharj) adversity, wiR teach at last 

Man,— and, as we would hope,— perhaps the devil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast : 

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 
We know not this— the blood flows on too fast , 

But as the torrent widens towards the ocean. 

We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

ni. 

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 

And wish'd that others held the same opinion • 
They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 

And other minds acknowledged my dominion : 
Now my sere fancy « falls into the yellow 

Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, 
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 

Itself to apathy, w^hich we must steep 
First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring, 

Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep , 
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; 
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.' 

V. 
Some have accused me of a strange design 

Against the creed and morals of the land, 
And trace it in this poem every line : 

I don't pretend that I quite understand 
My o^^^l meaning when I would be very fine ; 

But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, 
Unless it was to be a moment meirv, 
A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VI. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appear exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
Who sung when chivalry was more QuLXotn, 

And reveil'd in the fancies of the time, 
True^ knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kin<^ a»« 
'^potic ; "^ 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modem subject as more meeu 



no2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CA]\7 0li\ 



VII. 

How I have treated it, I do not know — 
Perhaps no better than they have treated me 

Who have imputed such designs as show, 
Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see ; 

Hut if it gives them pleasure, be it so, — 
T lis is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : 

Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 

And tells me to resume my story here. 

%qii. 

Yo\mg Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own hearts' most sweet society; 

Even Time the pitiless iir sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he 

Siwh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 

Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 

The blank gray was not made to blast their hair. 
But, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail. 

They were all summer : hghtning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 

A long and snake4ike hfe of dull decay 

Was not for them — they had too Uttle clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 

Weary, unless when separate : the tree 

Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damm'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, 

Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 

XI. 

The heart — which may be broken : happy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who, of that fragile mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
'Ihe long year Hnk'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

Xll. 
«' Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,' 

And many deaths do they escape by this : 
The death of friends, and, that which slays even more — 

The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 

Awaits at last even those whom longest miss 
llie old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 
Mdidec and Juar thought not of the dead ; 

The heavens, und earth, and air, seem'd made for them: 
They found no fault with time, save that he fled".; 

They S2w not in themselves aught to condemn : 
P.ach was tne other's mirror, and -but read 

Joy sparkhng in their dark eyes like a gem, 
And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
or U.r>- exchanging glances of affection. 



XIV. 

The gentle pressure, and the thriUing touch. 
The least glance better understood than woras, 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much , 
A language, too, but like to that of birds. 

Known but to them, at least appearing sucn 
As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 

Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 

To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard 

XV. 

All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
And children still they should have ever been ; 

They were not made in the real world to fill 
A busy character in the dull scene ; 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 

To pass their Uves in fountains and on flower5:, 

And never know the weight of human hours. 

XVI. 

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round : 
And these were not of the vain kind which cloy; ; 

For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appeard 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights. 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school. 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights. 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 

XVIII. 

Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair. 
Who never found a single hour too slow. 

What was it made them thus exempt from care ? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
But was in them their nature or their fate ; 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great. 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding. 
So that there was no reason for their loves, 
More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX. 
They gazed upon the sunset; 'tis an hour 

Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes. 
For it had made them what they were : the powei 

Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies 
When happiness had been their only dower. 

And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 
Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought 
The past still welcome as the present thought. 



CAXTO IV 



DON JUAN. 



60.S 



XXI. 

I know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight, 
Like the wind o'er a harp- string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 
And thus some boding flash'd through either frame, 

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

XXIL 

That large black projjhet eye seem'd to dilate 

And follow far the disappearing sun, 
As if their last day of a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone ; 
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none. 
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 

xxni. 

She tum'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
Which makes not others smile ; then tum'd aside : 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport — 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 

" If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 

Or I at least snail not survive to see." 

XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lips to hers, and silenced him with this, 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast. 
Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 

And no doubt of all methods 't is the best ; 
Some people prefer wine — 't is not amiss : 

I have tried both ; so those who would a part take 

May choose between the head-ache and the heart-ache. 

XXV. 

One of the two, according to your choice. 
Women or wine, you 'II have to undergo ; 

Both maladies are taies on our joys : 

But which to choose I really hardly know ; 

And if I had to give a casting voice. 

For both sides I could many reasons show. 

Id then decide, without great wrong to either, 
l^ere much better to have both than neither. 

xx\a. 

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other. 

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness. 
Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother. 

All that the best can mingle and express. 
When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, 

And love too much, and yet can not love less; 
But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
By the iminortal wash and power to bless. 

XXVII. 
Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 

Why did they not then die ? — they had lived too long, 
Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; 

Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong, 
The world was not for them, nor the world's art 

Ffr beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 
Love was born with them, in them, so intense, 
ft was their very spirit — not a sense. 



XXVIII. 

They should have lived together deep in woods 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Call'd social, where all vice and hatred are: 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 

The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 

Haidee and .Juan their s»«sta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep. 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd hke a brook 
A wordless music, and her face so fair 
Stirr'd with her dream as rose-leaves with the air ; 

XXX. 
Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 

Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 
Walks over it, was she shaken by the dreami. 

The mystical usurper of the mind — 
O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 

Good to the soul which we no more can bind , 
Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) 
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 

XXXI. 
She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 

Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but sti» 
She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 

Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her 
And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour. 

Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 
Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high 
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 

XXXII. 
Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 

O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 
And stumbled almost every step she made ; 

And something roll'd before her in a sheet. 
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid ; 

'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to mee 
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

xxxin. 

The dream changed : in a cave she stood, its walls 

Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls. 

Where waves might wash, and seals might bretd and 
lurk ; 
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mutfi 
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 
Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 

XXXIV. 
And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet. 

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 

Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now ' i 
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea-dirges low 
Rang in her sad ears Uke a m.ermaid's song. 
And that brief dream appear'd a hfe too Iwjf. 



G04 



BYRONS WORKS. 



CANTO 1 f 



XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Faded, or alier'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
INIore like and like to Larabro's aspect grew — 

NS'ith all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view ! 

Oh ! Powers of Heaven I what dark eye meets she therel 

'Tis — 'tis her father's — fix'd upon the pair! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell. 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well j 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

xxxvn. 

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek. 
And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and said, " Witliin ray call 

A thousand scimitars await the word ; 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

xxxvni. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 't is — 
'Tis Lambro — 'tis my father! Kiieel with me — 

He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 
Oh ! dsarest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my fihal joy ? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

Hijih and inscrutable the old man stood. 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 
Not always signs with him of calmest mood: 

He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 
Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 

Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 

XL. 
"Young man, your sword ;" so Lambro once more said: 

Juan repUed, "Not while this arm is free." 
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread. 

And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
Replied, "Your blood be then on your own head." 

Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
'T was fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
And next proceedea quietly to cock. 

XLI. 
It has a strange quick jar upon the ear. 

Thai cocking of a pistol, when you know 
A moment more will bring the sight to bear 

Upon vouf person, twelve vards off, or so ; 
A gentlemanly distance, not tbu near, 

If you have got a former friend for foe ; 
Hut afle' being fired at once or twice, 
T>»p ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 



XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 

Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breath, 

When Haidee tlirew herself her boy before. 

Stern as her sire ; " On me," she cried, " let deati 

Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 

He found — but sought not. I have pledged my faith; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 

^ XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears. 
And tenderness, and infancy: but now 

She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow ; 

And tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 
How hke they look'd ! the expression was the same} 

Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 

For she too was as one v>-ho could avenge, 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame : 

Her father's blood before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 

Their stature diflering but in sex and years; 

Even to the delicacy of their hands 

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears. 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both. 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 

His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still, 
And looking on her, as to look her through, 

"Not/," he said, "have sought this stranger's ill; 
Not 1 have made this desolation : few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 
But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
Done thme, the present vouches for the past. 

XLVII. 
" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 

His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 
He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 

And blew; another answer'd to the call. 
And rushing in disorderly, though led. 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 
Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 
He gave the word, " Arrest or slay the Frank." 

XLVIII. 
Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 

His daughter ; while compress'd withm his grasp, 
'T wLxt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 

In vain she struggled in her father's grasp, — 
His arms were like a jserpent's coil : then flew 

Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 
The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 



CANTO IV 



DON JUAN. 



bOb 



XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His omi well in : so well, ere you could look, 

His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 

L. 

And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
Juan from the apartment: with a sign 

Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 
'VSTiere lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 

They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line ; 

On board of one of these, and imder hatches. 

They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 

LI. 

The world i? full of strange vicissitudes. 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 

Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 

Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LIL 

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! 

Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic; 
For if my pure libations exceed three, 

I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 

That I must have recourse to black Bohea: 

'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, 

For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 

I.III. 

Unless when qualified with thee. Cognac! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack. 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack 

(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIV. 
I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 

Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded ? 
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe. 

And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 
iTer mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 

LV. 
There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit. 
Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 

But there too many a poison-tree has root, 
And midnight listens to the lion's roar. 

And long, Icng deserts scorch the camel's foot, 
Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan, 
&.nd as the soil is, so the heart of man. 



LVI. 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
Her human clay is kindled : full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth, 

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 

And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower: 

But her large dark eye show'd deep passion's forcP, 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVII. 

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray. 

Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 

Till slowly charged v/ith thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. 

Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
But, overwrought with passion and despair, 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 

Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

LVIIi. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore. 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down ; 

His blood was runnuig c the very floor 

Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own : 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive gi'oan ; 

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst,^ and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; 

And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 

O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bor«! 

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store. 

But she defied all means they could em.ploy, 

Like one hfe could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill, 

With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 

No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 
Corruption came not in each mind to kill 

AU hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul. 
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXI. 
The ruling passion, such as marble shows 

When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there. 
But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 

O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair ; 
O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes. 

And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 
Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXII. 
She woke at length, but not as sleepers wakt% 

Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 
A strange sensation which she must partake 

Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
Struck not on memorj', though a heavy ache 

Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still tru« 
Brought back the sense of pain without the caus«, 
Ff*, for a while, the furies made a pause. 



(>06 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO IV, 



LXIII. 

She look'ci on many a face with vacant eye, 
On man/ a token without knowing what ; 

She saw them watch her without asking why, 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 

Not speechless, though she spoke not : not a sigh 
Reveal'd her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 

LXIV. 

lier handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
She recognised no being, and no spot, 

Howevei dear or chensh'd in their day ; 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay ; 
And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, seem'd full of fearful meaning. 

LXV. 

At last a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent. 
And he began a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme. 

And sung of love — the fierce name struck tlirough all 
Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 

'')f what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being ; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 

And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 

And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. 

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close : 
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave. 
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 
Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 

Avail'd for either ; neither change of place. 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 

LXIX. 
Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 

VVithout a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
A parimg pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 

And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 
T r.i^ very mstant, till the change that cast 

W^t sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 
GWcd o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 
Ob •.» oossess such la-'tre — and then lack ! 



LXX. 

She died, but not alone ; she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin : 
But closed Its little being without light. 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one bight ; 

In vain the dews of heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she : never more on her. 
Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
Brief, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 

Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare. 

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away, 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay : 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

Lxxm. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her ; 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err. 

In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 

And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf; 
I don't much like describing people mad. 

For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 
Besides, I 've no more on this head to add : 

And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 
We '11 put about and try another tack 
With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 
Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 

Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
Could altogether call the past to mind ; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea. 
Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 

The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 
But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigseum 

LXXVI. 
There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 

(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 
Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles : 

They say so — (Bryant says the contrary): 
And further downward, tall and lowering, still is 

The tumulus — of whom? Heaven knows ; 't may M 
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, — 
All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 



CANTO IV. 



DON JUAN. 



GOT 



LXXVII. 

High barrows, without marble or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

A^nd Ida in the distance, still the same, 
And old Scamander (if 'tis he), remain; 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's walls 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there 
Some httle hamlets, with new names uncouth ; 

Some shepherds (unhke Paris), led to stare 
A moment at the European youth 

Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear ; 
A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, 

Extremely taken with his own religion, 

Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep-blue surge, 
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave : 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory information 

About his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians — as they were, in fact ; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 

Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 

In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 

In their vocation, — had not been attack'd, 

In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate. 

But sold by the impresario at no high rate.' 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo of the party, 

Juan was told about their curious case ; 
For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he 

Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 
The little fellow really look'd quite hearty. 

And bore him with some gaiety and grace. 
Showing a much more reconciled demeanour 
Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 
In a few words he told their hapless story, 

Saying, " Our Machiavehan impresario. 
Making a signal off" some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 
We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry. 

Without a single scudo of salaiio ; 
But, if the sultan has a taste for song. 
We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIIL 
" The prima donna, though a little old. 

And haggard with a dissipated life. 
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 

Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife. 
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold ; 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife. 
By carrying off* Count Ceesar Cicogna, 
Frcaa an oM Roman princcos at Bologna. 



LXXXIV. 

" And then there are the dancers ; there 's the Nini, 
With more than one profession, gains by all ; 

Then there 's that laughing slut, the Pellegrini, 
She too was fortunate last carnival. 

And made at least five hundred good zecchini. 
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul ; 

And then there 's the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 

Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer. 

LXXX\ . 

" As for the figuranti, they are hke 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 

The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 
There 's one, though tall, and stiffer than a pike, 

Y^et has a sentimental kind of air, 
Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour , 
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 

LXXXVL 

" As for the men, they are a middling set ; 

The Musico is but a crack'd o.d basin, 
But, being qualified in one way yet, 

May the seraglio do to set his face in. 
And as a servant some preferment get ; 

His singing I no further trust can place in : 
From all the pope '* makes yearly, 't would perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 

LXXXVII. 

" The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 

In fact, he had no singing education, 

An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, 

But being the prima donna's near relation. 

Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow. 

They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believe 

An ass was practising recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

" 'T would not become myself to dwell upon 

My own merits, and though young — I see, sir — yci 
Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 

To whom the opera is by no means new : 
You've heard of Raucocanti ? — I'm the man; 

The time may come when you may hear me too 
You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
But next, when I'm engaged to sing there— do go, 

LXXXIX. 
"Our barytone I almost had forgot, 

A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit ; 
With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 
He always is complaining of his lot. 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 
In lovers' parts, his passion more to breathe. 
Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 

XC. 
Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew. 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad births ; each thre\* 
A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all. 

From the blue skies derived a double bluf. 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun), 
, And then went down the hatchway ov.& bv wne 



COS 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO n 



XCI. 

Tliey heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his sublimity's firman — 
T'.ie most imperative of sovereign spells, 

^Yhich every body does without who can, — 
More to secure them in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
Were to be chained and lotted out per couple 
For the slave-market of Constantinople. 

XCIl. 

It seems when this allotment was made out. 

There chanced to be an odd male and odd female, 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt 
If the soprano might be doom'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 

W as Juan, who — an awkward thing at his age — 

Pair'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage. 

XCIII. 

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each m.ore pain'd 
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 
Instead of bearing up without debate. 

That each puU'd different ways with many an oath, 

*' Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both. 

XCIV. 

Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

Rut bred within the March of old Ancona, 

With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 

(And other chief points of a "belladonna"), 

Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 
And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 

Great wish to please — a most attractive dower. 

Especially when added to the power. 

xcv. 

But all that power was wasted upon him. 

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 

And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 

(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle ; 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a Uttle. 

XCVI. 
ho matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire. 

But facts are facts, — no knight could be more true. 
And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 

We will omit the proofs, save one or two. 
'T is said no one in hand " can hold a fire 

By thought cf frosty Caucasus," but few 
I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 
Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XCVII. 
litre i might enter on a chaste description. 

Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
But hear that several people take exception 

At the first two books having too much truth; 
Therefore I 'l' make Don Juan leave the ship soon. 

Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
Tlirouah needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
1 o pass, than those two cantos into families. 



XCVIII. 

'T is all the same to me, I 'm fond of yielding, 
And therefore leave them to the purer page 

Of SmoUet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so correct an age ; 

I once had gi-eat alacrity in wielding 
My pen, and liked poetic war to wage. 

And recollect the time when all this cant 

Would have provoked remarks which now it shan' 

XCIX. 

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble , 
But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 

Leaving such to the literary rabble. 

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease 

While the right hand which wrote it still is able. 
Or of some centuries to take a lease, 

The grass upon my grave will grow as long. 

And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

C. 

Of poets, who come down to us through distance 
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes ^ fame. 

Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 

'T is as a snowball which derives assistance 
From every flake, and yet rolls on th^ same. 

Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow, — 

But after all 't is nothing but cold snow. 

CL 

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 
And love of glory 's but an airy lust. 

Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would, as 't were, identify their dust 

From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all 
Leaves nothing till the coming of the just — 

Save change : I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 

And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome. 

CIL 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb. 

Until the memory of an age is fled, 

And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom .■ 

Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? 
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, 

Which once-named m3'riads nameless he beneath, 

And lose their own in universal death. 

cm. 

I canter by the spot each afternoon 

Where perish 'd in his fame the hrro-boy. 
Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 

For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 
A broken pillar not uncouthly hewn. 

But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 
Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* 

CIV. 
I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 

A Uttle cupola, more neat than solemn, 
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column. 
The time must come when both, alike decay'u. 

The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where he the songs and %vars of earth, 
Before Pelides' death or Homer's b'j;th. 



CANTO IV. 



DON JUAN. 



609 



cv. 

With human blood that column was cemented, 
With human filth that column is defiled, 

As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented, 
To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd ; 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 

Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

CVI. 

Yet there will still be bards ; though fame is smoke. 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; 

And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 

Song in the world, will seek what then they sought ; 

As on the beach the waves at last are broke. 
Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought. 

Dash into poetry, which is but passion. 

Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 

CVII. 

If in the course of such a life as Avas 
At once adventurous and contemplative, 

Men who partake all passions as they pass. 
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 

riieir images again, as in a glass. 
And in such colours that they seem to live ; 

You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 

But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 

Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 

Benign ceruleans of the second sex ! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks, 

Your "imprimatur" will ye not annex? — 
What, must I go to the oblivious cooks, — 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be 
Proscribed from tasting your CastaUan tea? 

CIX. 

What, can I prove " a lion " Lhen no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
To bear the compliments of many a bore. 

And sigh " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling. 
Why then I '11 swear, as poet Wordy swore 

(Because the world won't read him, always snarling). 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 

ex. 

Oh ! " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 

As some one somewhere sings about the sky. 
And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; 

They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why, 
1 have examined few pair of that hue) ; 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
Round the patrician left-iegs, which adorn 
The festal midnight and the levee morn. 

CXI. 
Yc. jome of you are most seraphic creatures — 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover. 
You read my stanzas, and I read your features : 

And — but no matter, all those things are over ; 
Still I have no dislike to learned natures. 

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 
I know one v/oman of that purple school. 
The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 
3E 02 



CXII. 

Humbo dt, " the first of travellers," but not 
The last, if late accounts be accurate. 

Invented, by some name I have forgot. 
As well as the sublime discovery's date. 

An airy instrument, with which he sought 
To ascertain the atmospheric state. 

By measuring " the intensity of blue ;" 

Oh, Lady Daphne ! let me measure you ! 

CXIII. 

But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 
With slaves to sell off in the capital, 

After the usual process, might be found 
At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 

Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sounJ, 
Were landed in the market, one and all. 

And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 

Bought up for different purposes and passions. 

CXIV. 

Suuie went off dearly : fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a svveot girl, were given, 

Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 

Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers. 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

'T was for the sultan, and at once withdrew. 

cxv. 

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 
Which the West-Indian market scarce would bring , 

Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
What 'twas ere abolition; and the thing 

Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king: 

The virtues, even the most exalted, charity. 

Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop, 
How some were bought by pachas, some by Jewb, 

How some to burdens were obliged to stoop. 
And others rose to the command of crews 

As renegadoes; while in hapless group. 
Hoping no very old vizier might choose, 

The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 

To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim. 

CXVII. 

All this must be reserved for further song; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
(Because this canto has become too long). 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present ; 
I'm sensible redundancy is vvrong, 

But could not for the muse of me put less 'ji t 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan. 



n^'v'^ ^"^ ^* 



610 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO r. 



CANTO Y. 



I. 

When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid I nes mellifluously bland, 
And praise iheir rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, 

They iittle think what mischief is in hand ; 
i"he greater their success the worse it proves, 

As Ovid's verse may make you understand ; 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity. 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 

II. 

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing. 
Except in such a way as not to attract ; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means mviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
And with all passions in their turn attack'd ; 

Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem will become a moral model. 

III. 

The European with fhe Asian shore 

Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream,' 

Here and there studded with a seventy-four ; 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 

The c}'press groves; Olympus high and hoar; 
The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, 

Fiir less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 

IV. 

I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 

For once it was a magic sound to me, 
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 

Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 

A spell from which even yet I am not quite free ; 
But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
Which must not be pathetically told. 

V. 
The wind swept down the Euxine and the wave 

Broke foaming o'er the blue S}Tnplegades, 
T is a grand sight, from oft" " the Giant's Grave,"* 

To watch the progress of those rolling seas 
Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 

Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease ; 
Tliere's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in 
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VL 
Twaa a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 

When nights are equal, but not so the days; 
The Parcae then cut short the further spinning 

Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
The waters, and repentance for past sinning 

Ip all who o'er the great deep take their ways : 
Tnev vow lo amend their lives, and yet they don't; 
Be^rause if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they won't. 



VII. 

A crowd (f shivering slaves of every nation. 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 

Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 

Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly change L 

All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 
From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged , 

The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, 

As most at his age are, of hope, and health ; 

Yet I must own he look'd a little dull, 

And now and then a tear stole down by stealth j 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene: 

His figure, and the splendour of his dress. 

Of which some gilded remnants still were seen^ 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom. 

X. 

Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted 

With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted : 

Some bought the jet, while others chose the palew 

It chanced, amongst the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 

W^ith resolution in his dark-gray eye. 

Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 

XI. 

He had an English Iook ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy. 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark-brown hair. 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 

An open brow a little niark'd with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such sang-froid^ that greatei 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 

xn. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad. 

Of a high spirit evidently, though 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even mfen, he soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the woe, 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 
" My boy !" — said he, " amidst this motley crew 

Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and "/htit not, 
All ragamuffins differing but in hue. 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot. 
The only gentlemen seem I and you, 

So let us be acquainted, as we ought: 
If I could yield you any consolation, 
'T would give me pleasure.— Pray, what is vournation'" 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAN. 



611 



XIV. 

When Juan answer'd "Spanish!" he replied, 
" I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 

Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 
Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 

But that's her way with all men till they're tried: 
But never mind, — she 'U turn, perhaps, next week ; 

She has served me also much the same as you, 

Except that I have found it nothing new." 

XV. 

♦' Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 

What brought you here?" — "Oh! nothingvery rare — 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To this doom 

By what conducted, if the question 's fair. 

Is that which I would learn." — "I served for some 
Months with the Russian army here and there, 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widin." 

XVI. 

"Have you no friends?" — "I had — but,by God's blessing. 
Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 

( have answer'd all your questions without pressing. 
And you an equal courtesy should show." — 

"Alas!" said Juan, " 't were a tale distressing. 
And long besides." — " Oh ! if 't is really so. 

You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 

A sad tale saddens doubly when 't is long. 

XVIL 

" But droop not : Fortune, at your lime of life, 

Although a female moderately fickle. 
Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) 

For any length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive too with our fate were such a strife 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 

XVIII. 

**'Tis not," said Juan, " for my present doom 

I mourn, but for the past; — I loved a maid:" 
He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 

A single tear upon his eyelash staid 
A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to resume, 

'T is not my present lot, as I have said, 
Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 
Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XIX. 
" On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and here 

He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 
" Ay," quoth his friend, " I thought it would appear 

That there had been a lady in the case ; 
And these are things which ask a tender tear. 

Such as I too would shed, if in your place : 
I cried upon my first wife's dying day, 
And also when my second ran away : 

XX. 
"My ihird" — "Your third!" quoth Juan, turning round; 

"You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?" 
" No — only two at present above ground : 

Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" 

"Well, then, your third," said Juan; "what did she? 
She did noi ^an away, too, did she, sir?" 
w No, faith."—" What then?"— "I ran away from her." 



XXI. 

" You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 

Replied the other, " what can a man do ? 
There still are many rainbows in your sky. 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new,. 
Commence with feelings warm and prospects high, 

But time strips our illusions of their hue. 
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 

XXII. 
" 'T is true, it gets another bright and fresh. 

Or fresher, brighter ; but, the year gone through, 
This skin must go the way too of all flesh. 

Or sometimes only wear a week or two ; — 
Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ^ 

Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 
The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 
Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 
" All this is very fine, and may be true," 

Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 
It betters present times with me or you." 

"No!" quoth the other; "yet you will allow. 
By setting things in their right point of view. 

Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now, 
We know what slavery is, and our disasters 
May teach us better to behave when masters." 

XXIV. 
" Would we were masters now, if but to try 

Their present lessons on our pagan friends here," 
Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 
" Heav'n help the scholar whom his fortune sencw 
here !" 
" Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 

Rejoin'd the other, " when our bad luck mends here, 
Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 
I wish to G-d that somebody would buy us ! 

XXV. 
" But after all, what is our present state ? 

'T is bad, and may be better — all men's lot . 
Most men Lre slaves, none more so than the great. 
To their own whims and passions, and what not ; 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the worl'^'s stoics — men without a heaj-t " 

XXVI. 
Just now a, black old neutral personage 

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 
The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age. 

And capabilities, as to discover 
If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 

No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 
Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 

XXVII. 
As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-eveatures , 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by featjr^'a 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 

Some by a place — as tend their years cr natuit-^ , 
The most by ready cash — but all h.ave prices. 
From crowns to kicks, accordm*, to their vices 



612 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO V 



XXVIII. 

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 

Fu-st but for one, and after for the pair ; 
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did ! 

As though they were in a mere Christian fair, 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 

So that their bargain sounded hke a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling. 
And pulling out reluctant purses, and 

Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 

And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling. 
Until the sum was accurately scann'd. 

And then the merchant, gi'ving change and signing 

Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good ; 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion. 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question, 
About the right divine how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd one. 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire says "No;" he tells you that Candide 
Found life most tolerable after meals ; 

lie 's wrong — unless man was a pig, indeed, 
Repletiorx rather adds to what he feels ; 

Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed 
From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 

Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 

Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father) ; 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two. 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout. 
And fish and soup, by some side dishes back'd, 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would pique himself on intellects, whoso use 
Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 

XXXIII. 
The other evening ('t was on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great coat was about me cast. 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
f heard a shot — 't was eight o'clock scarce past — 

And running out as fast as I was able,^ 
J lound the miUtary commandant 
fe'retch'd in me street, and able scarce to pant. 

XXX rr. 

Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him there 

To perish on the pavement: so I had 
Him borne into the house and up the slair. 

And stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 

More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 

The man was gone: in some Itahan quarrel 

?f ill <1 by five buLeis from an old gun-barrel.* 



XXXV. 

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 

iVjid, though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell. 

So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart 
and liver, 
He seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: — 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 
"Can this be death? then what is life or death? 

Speak ! " but he spoke not : "wake ! " but still he slept : 
But yesterday, and who had mightier breath ? 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, 

' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 

XXXVII. 
And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 

With their rough faces throng'd about the bed, 
To gaze once more on the commanding clay 

Which for the last though not the first time bled ; 
And such an end ! that he who many a day 

Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 
The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 

XXXVIII. 
The scars of his old wounds were near his new. 

Those honourable scars which brought him fame ; 
And horrid was the contrast to the view — 

But let me quit the theme, as such things claim 
Perhaps even more attention than is due 

From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 
To try if I could wrench aught out of death. 
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 
Bat it was all a mystery. Here we are, 

And there we go :— but lohere? five bits of lead, 
Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 

And is this blood, then, forra'd but to be shed ? 
Can every element our elements mar? 

And air — earth — water — fire live— and we dead ? 
We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more . 
But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 
The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
Embark'd himself and them, and off" they went thence 

As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
They look'd like persons being led to sentence. 

Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 
Up in a little creek below a wall 
O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 
Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 

Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and 
He led them onward, first through a low thicket 

Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either hand 
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 

For night was closing ere they came to lan^. 
The eunuch made a sign to those on board. 
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 



eANTO V. 



DON JUAN. 



613 



XLII, 

As they were plodding on their winding way, 
Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth, 

{Of which I might have a good deal to say, 
There being no such profusion in the North 

Of oriental plants, " et caetera," 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 

Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 

Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks) : 

XLin. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

WTiisper'd to his companion : — 'twas the same 
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 

' Methinks," — said he — " it would be no great shame 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free ; 

Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head. 

And march away — 'twere easier done than said." 

XLIV. 

■* Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 

How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our sldn. 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 

And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 
Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright, a beef-steak. 

XLV. 

" We must be near some place of man's abode ; 

For the old negro's confidence in creeping. 
With his two captives, by so queer a road, 

Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; 
A single cry would bring them all abroad : 

'T is therefore better looking before leaping — 
And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. 
By Jove, a noble palace ! — Hghted too." 

XLVI. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 

Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 

There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 

A gaudy taste ; for they are little skill'd in 

The arts of which these lands were once the font : 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

xLvn. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savour 

Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus. 
Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, 

Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause. 
And put himself upon his good behaviour : 

His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 
Said, " In Heaven's name let 's get some supper now. 

And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row." 

xLvin. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion. 
Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 

The last of these was never much the fashion, 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on, 

With arguments according to their " forte ;" 

But no one ever dreams of being short. 
3b 2 



XLIX. 

But I digress : of all appeals,— although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 

Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 

Method's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold. 

Than that all-softening, o'erpowering knell. 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 

L. 

Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine : 
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 

No Christian knoll to table, saw no fine 
Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared, 

Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bareJ, 

And gazed around them to the left and right 

With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance. 

They follow'd close behind their sabie guide, 

Who Uttle thought that his own cracK'd existence 
Was on the point of being set aside : 

He motion'd them to stop at some small distance. 
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd w\de, 

And a magnificent large hall display'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade,. 

LII. 

I won't describe ; description is my forte. 

But every fool describes in these bright days 
His wond'rous journey to some foreign court. 

And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise - 
Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport; 

While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways. 
Resigns herself with exemplary patience 
To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. 

LIII. 
Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 

Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 
Others in monosyllable talk chatted. 

And some seem'd much in love with their own dress; 
And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 

With amber mouths of greater price or less; 
And several strutted, others slept, and some 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.* 

LIV. 
As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 

Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 
A moment without slackening from their pace ; 

But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in any wise : 
One or two stared the captives in the face. 

Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 
Some nodded to the negro from their station, 
But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 
He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping 

On through a farther range of goodly rooms. 
Splendid but silent, save in one^ where, dropping, 

A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 
Of night, which robe the chamber, or where pcDDing 

Some female head most curiously pi esumes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door oi .attica. 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 



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BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO V. 



LVI. 

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 

But not enough to show the imperial halls 
In all the flashing of their full array ; 

Perhaps there 's nothing — I '11 not say appals, 
But saddens more by night as well as day. 

Than an enormous room without a soul 

To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 

LVII. 

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing : 
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 

There solitude, we know, has her full growth m 
The spots which were her realms for evermore: 

But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 
More modern buildings and those built of yore, 

A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 

Seeing what 's meant for many wiih but one. 

LVIII. 

A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 
A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 

Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 

Are things which make an English evening pass ; 

Though certes by no mean? so grand a sight 
As is a theatre lit up by gas. 

I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 

And that's the reason I'm so melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little: 
I gi-ant you in a church 't is very well : 

What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 
But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 

Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill — 
And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell : 

Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 

Might teach them this much better than I'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 

Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 

Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing. 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 
The people's awe and admiration raising ; 

*T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 

And the calumniated Queen Semiramis. 
LXI. 



LXII. 

Rut to resume,— should there be (what may not 
Bo in these days?) some infidels, who don't. 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't 

(Though O.audius Rich, esquiro, some bricks has get 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't), 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must b<>.beaeved, though they believe not you: — 



LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 

Of those, forgetting the great place of rest. 
Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 

We know where things and men must end at las* 
A moral (like all morals) melancholy. 

And " Et sepulcri immemor struis domes" 

Shows that we build when we should but entomb us 

LXIV. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber : 

Though full of all things which could be desired. 
One wonder'd what to do with such a number 

Of articles which nobody required ; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 

With furniture an exquisite apartment. 

Which puzzled nature muuh to know what art meant. 

LXV. 

It seem'd however, but to open on 

A range or suite of further chambers, which 

Might lead to heaven knows where ; but in this one 
The moveables were prodigally rich ; 

Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon, 

So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 

Of w-orkmanship so rare, that made you wish 

You could glide o'er them like a golden fish, 

LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 

A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonaer. 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
As if the milky way their feet was under 

With all its stars : and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you don't, the fault is not in me : 

Lxvn. 

I wish to be perspicuous : and the black, 

I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 
A quantity of clothes fit for the back 

Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
And of variety there was no lack — 

And yet, though I have said there was no dearth 
He chose himself to point out what he thought 
Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII. 
The suit he thought most suitable to each 

Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach. 

And trowsers not so tight that they would burs* 
But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nursl 
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 
In short, all things which form a Turkish dandy. 

LXIX. 
While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 

Hinted the vast advantages which they 
Might probably attain both in the end. 

If they would but pursue the proper way 
Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend ; 

And then he added, that he needs must say, 
" 'T would greatly tend to better their condJMon, 
If they would condescend to circumcision. 



CA^TO V. 



DON JUAN. 



ijlb 



LXX. 

" J^r his own part, he really should rejoice 

To see them true believers, but no less 
Would leave his proposition to their choice." 

The other, thanking him for this excess 
Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 

In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
" Sutficiently (he said) his approbation 
Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 

LXXI. 
" For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite. 
And after swallowing down a slight refection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." — 
•' Will it V said Juan, sharply ; " Strike me dead, 
T.ui they as soon shall circumcise my head — 

LXXII. 

" Cut ofl'a thousand heads, before " — " Now pray,'' 

Replied the other, " do not interrupt : 

You put me out in what I had to say. 
Sir! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd, 

I shall perpend if your proposals may 
Be such as I can properly accept : 

Provided always your great goodness still 

Remits the matter to our own free-will." 

LXXIII. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said " Be so good 

As dress yourself — " and pointed out a suit 
In which a princess with great pleasure would 

Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute. 
As not being in a masquerading mood, 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; 
And when the old negro told him to "Get ready," 
Replied, " Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady." 

LXXIV. 
"What you maybe, I neither know nor care," 

Said Baba, "but pray do as I desire, 
I have no more time nor many words to spare." 

" At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 
The cause of this odd travesty?" — "Forbear," 

Said Baba, "to be curious: 'twill transpire. 
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 
I have no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXV. 
" Then if I do," said Juan, " I '11 be " "Hold !" 

Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not provoking ; 
This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold, 

And you will find us not too fond of joking." 
" What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 

That I unsex'd my dress ?" But Baba, stroking 
The things down, said — "Incense me, and I call 
Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXVI. 
•' I offer you a handsome suit of clothes : 

A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause 
Why you should wear them." — " What, though my 
soul loathes 

The effeminate garb ?" — Thus, after a short pause, 
Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some shght oaths, 

"What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?" 
Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 
Which «'er set off a marriage-morning face. 



LXXVII. 

And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp d 

A pair of trowsers of flesh-colour'd silk ; 
Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd. 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk ; 
But, tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 

Which — as we say — or as the Scotch say, whilk 
(The rhyme obliges me to this: — sometimes 
Kings arc not more imperative than rhymes) — 

LXXVIII. 
Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to 

His garment's novelty, and his being awkward ; 
And yet at last he managed to get through 

His toilet, though no doubt a little backward ; 
The negro Baba help'd a little too, 

When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard \ 
And, wrestling both his arms into a gov/n. 
He paused and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd, — his hair 

Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 
So many false long tresses all to spare, 

That soon his head was most completely crcA'n'd, 
After the manner then in fashion there; 

And this addition wilh such gems was bound 
As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 
While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 

LXXX. 
And now being femininely all array'd. 

With some small aid from scissors, paint, and 
tweezers. 
He look'd in almost all respects a maid. 

And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, "You see, sus, 
A perfect transformation here display'd ; 

And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs. 
That is — the lady:" — clapping his hands twice, 
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 
" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 

" Will please to accompany those gentlemen 
To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 

Will follow me : no trifling, sir : for when 
I say a thing, it must at once be done. 

What fear you ? think you this a hon's deu ? 
Why 'tis a palace, where the truly wise 
Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 
" You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm.' 

" So much the better," Juan said, " for them : 
Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 

Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 
I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm, 

If any take me for that which I seem ; 
So that I irust, for every body's sake. 
That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 

LXXXIII. 
" Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; whiw 

Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a si»i'» 

Upon the metamorphosis in view, 
"Farewell!" they mutually exclaim'd : "this soil 

Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; 
One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid.'* 



f;iG 



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CANTO V, 



LXXXIV. 

"Farewell!" saidJuan; " should we meet no more, 
I wish you a good appetite." — "Farewell!" 

RepUed the other ; " though it grieves me sore ; 
When we next meet we '11 have a tale to tell ; 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell." 

"Nay," quoth the maid, "the Sultan's self shan't caiTy me, 

LFnless his highness promises to marry me." 

LXXXV. 

And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 

Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 

And %> afted far arose a rich perfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI. 

The giant door was broad, and bright and high. 
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 

Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 

Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies j 

There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 
And in perspective many a squadron flies : 

It seems the work of times before the line 

Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 

LXXXVII. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 
Of a huge hall, and on its either side 

Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 

In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 

The gate so splendid was in all its features,'' 

You never thought about these little creatures, 

Lxxxvm. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men. 

Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor gray, 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 
Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 

Thty look'd so little, did strong things at times — 
Tc ope this door, w-hich they could really do. 

The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes ; 
And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 

As is the custom of those eastern climes, * 
To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 
For mutes are generally used for that. 

xc. 

ITiey spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at all ; 

And. looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba with his fingers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
v)r fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 



XCI. 

Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 

To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 
"If you could just contrive," he said, "to st-nt 

That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 
'T would be as well, and — (though there's not much 
in 't)— 

To swing a httle less from side to side. 
Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; 
And also, could you look «. little modest, 

XCII. 
'T would be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 

Like needles, which might pierce those petticoats ; 
And if they should discover your disguise, 

You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats ; 
And you and I may chance, ere morning rise. 

To find our way to Marmora without boats, 
Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
A good deal practised here upon occasion." 

XCIII. 
With this encouragement, he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry any thing away. 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast ; 
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, 
Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIV. 
Wealth had done wonders — taste not mucn ; such things 

Occur in orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten'd domes of western kings, 

(Of which I 've also seen some six or seven), 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 

Bluch lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcv. 

In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady. Baba stopp'd, and kneeling, sign'd 
To Juan, who, though not much used to pray, 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

XCVI. 
The lady, rising up with such an air 

As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 
Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem : 
And, raising up an arm as moonlight fair. 

She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 
Of her deep-purple robe, and, speaking low. 
Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

XCVII. 
Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind. 
Whose force description only would abate : 

I 'd rather leave it much to your own mmd, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features; it would stiike you blind. 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAN. 



617 



XCVIII. 

This much however I may add — her years 
^X ere ripe, they might make six and twenty springs, 

But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 

Such as was Mary's, Queen of Scots ; true — tears 
And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 

Charms from the charmer — yet some never grow 

Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike ; hke Juan, too, 
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen : 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 

Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 

As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 

C. 

They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring 

But not by the same door through which came in 

Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring. 
At some small distance, all he saw v/ithin 

This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
Marvel and praise : for both or none things wm ; 

And I must say I ne'er could see the very 

Great happiness of the " Nil admirari." 

CI. 

"Not to admire is all the art I know, 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) 
To make men happy, or to keep them so ;" 

(So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
Thus Horac3 wrote, we all know, long ago ; 

And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 
From his translation ; but had none admired, 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

CII. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 

A second time desired him to kneel down 
And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 

He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
Drew himself up to his full height again, 

And said " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 

To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 

cm. 

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 

About a bowstring — quite in vain ; not yet 
Would Juan stoop, though 'twere to Mahomet's bride: 

There's nothing in the world like etiquette. 
In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 
As also at the race and county balls. 

CIV. 
lie stood like Atlas, with a world of words 

About I'is ears, and nathless would not bendj 
ITie blooa of all his line's Castilian lorJs 

Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 
To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 

A thousand times of him had made an end ; 
At length perceiving the "/ooZ" could not stand, 
Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 
83 



CV. 

Here v/as an honourable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guis© , 

And Juan now his willingness express'd 
To use all fit and proper courtesies. 

Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
For through the South the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

CVI. 

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
Though on more thorough-bred^ or fairer fingers 

No lips ere left their transitory trace : 

On such as these the lip too fondly Ungers, 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
As you will see, if she you love will bring hers 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 

An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

CVII. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
Baba retire, which he obey'd in style. 

As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while. 

He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 

And, looking on him with a sort of smile. 

Took leave with such a face of satisfaction, 

As good men wear who have done a virtuous actlojh 

CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
I know not what might be the lady's thought, 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, 
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which ran^e 
The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 

A mixture of sensations might be scann'd. 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

CIX. 

Her form had all the softness of her sex, 
Her features all the sweetness of the devil. 

When he put on the cherub to perplex 

Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil , 

The sun himself w as scarce more free from specks 
Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil , 

Yet somehow there was something somewhere wanting 

As if she rather ordered than was granting. — 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was thrown, as 'twere, about the neck of you, - 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view : 
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obty— 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweei . 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet 

As though they were quite conscious of her station 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not n!uie>. 



18 



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CANTO V 



CXII. 

"To hear and to obey" had been from birth 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
Her blood was high, her becuty scarce of earth : 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion 
We should have found out the " perpetual motion." 

CXIII. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought, 

And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed: 
There was no end unto the things she bought, 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
The women pardon'd all except her face. 

CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 

She order'd him directly to be bought, 
And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 

In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 

Had his instructions where and how to deal; 

Shtt had no prudence, but he had ; and this 

Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

cxv. 

His youth and features favour'd the disguise. 
And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride. 

Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide: 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified. 

As we may ascertain with due precision, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CXVI. 

But to the main point, where we have been tending: — 
She now conceived all difficulties past. 

And deem'd herself extremely condescending 
When being made her property at last, 

Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 

And merely saying, "Christian, canst thou love?" 

Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

cxvn. 

And so it was, xu proper time and place ; 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
Witn Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face. 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing. 
Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace. 

And left his cheeks as pale as snow-drops blowing : 
These words went through his soul like Arab spears. 
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

cxvni. 

*?-ic was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears, 
\'ox women shed and use them at their liking ; 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 

* woman's *ear-drop melts, a man half sears, 
lilke molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

Hi»: heart, to force it out, for (to be shorter) 

Tc thori 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 



CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how ; 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now, 

And never having dreamt what 't was to bear 
Aught of a serious so/rowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 

cxx. 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
And when a strong although a strange sensatio 

Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every s^ituation ; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must stop like all things else; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one who dared to ask if " he had loved," 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 

And although sensitive to beauty, he 

Felt most indignant still at not being free. 

CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days. 
Was much em.barrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and praise , 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete. 

To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 

And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

C XXIII. 

I also would suggest the fitting time. 

To gentlemen in any such like case, 
That is to say — in a meridian clime ; 

With us there is mere law given to the case. 
But here a small delay forms a great crime : 

So recollect that the extremest grace 
Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

CXXIV. 
Juan's was good ; and might have been still bettei 

But he had got Haidee into his head : 
However strange, he could not yet forget her. 

Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 

For having had him to the palace led, 
Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

cxxv. 

At length, in an imperia. way, she laid 

Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes, 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies ; 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries 

She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAN. 



6i.^ 



XXVI. 

Tins was an awkward test, as Juan found, 
But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride ; 

With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 
And seated her all drooping by his side. 

Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 

''The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 

Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

" Thou ask'st if I can love ? be this the proof 
How much I liave loved — that I love not thee ! 

In this vile garb, the distaff's web and woof 
Were fitter for me : love is for the free ! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof. 

Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be — 

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne. 

And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 

CXXVIII. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite. 

Not so to her who ne'er had heard such things ; 

She deem'd her least command must yield delight, 
Earth being only made for queens and kings. 

tf hearts lay on the left side or the right 
She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 

Legitimacy its born votaries, when 

Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion any where ; 
And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Some stress upon those charms which seldom are 
By the possessors thrown into the shade ; — 

She thought hers gave a double "right divine," 

And half of that opinion 's also mine. 

CXXX. 

Remember, or (if you cannot) imagine. 
Ye ! who have kept your chastity when young. 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 

By vour refusal, recollect her raging ! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject; then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

CXXXL 

Suppose, but you already have supposed, 

The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
Phedra, and all which story has disclosed 

Of good examples ; pity that so few by 
Poets and private tutors are exposed, 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 
But when you have supposed the few we know, 
You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXIL 
\ tigress robb'd of young, a honess, 

Or any interesting beast of prey, 
\.re simUes at hand for the distress 

Of laaies who cannot have their own way ; 
But though my turn will not be served with less. 

These don't express one half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any? 



cxxxin. 

The love of offspring 's nature's general law, 

From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings , 
There 's nothing whets the beak or arms the claw 

Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings , 
And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 

How mothers love their children's squalls and chuck 
Lings ; 
This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
Your patience) shows the cause must still be strong?"" 

CXXXIV. 
If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 

'T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire 
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 

I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 
So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire: 
Even you who know what a check'd woman is, 
(Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of thtS. 

cxxxv. 

Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well — 
A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 

It lasted, 't was like a short 'glimpse of hell : 
Nought's more sublime than energetic bile. 

Though horrible to see yet grand to tell. 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing through her form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 

CXXXVI. 

A vulgar tempest 'twere to a Typhoon 

To match a common fury with her rage. 
And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 

Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page ; 
Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune. 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 
Her wish was but to " kill, kill^ kill," like Lear's, 
And then he thirst of blood was quench'd in tears 

CXXXVII. 
A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 

Pass'd without words — in fact she could not speak , 
And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 

A sentiment till then in her but weak. 
But now it flow'd in natural and fast, 

As water through an unexpected leak, 
For she felt humbled — and humiliation 
Is sometimes good for people in her station. 

C XXXVIII. 
It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 

It also gently hints to them that others. 
Although of clay, are not yet quite of mud ; 

That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
And works of the same pottery, bad or good. 

Though not all born of the same sires and mother% 
It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches. 
But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

CXXXIX. 
Her first thought was to cut off Juan's heaa ,• 

Her second, to cut only his — acquaincance ; 
Her third, to ask him where he had been Dred, 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herscjlf; her seventh, to senkiK* 
The lash to Baba; — but her grand resource 
Was to sit dcwn again, and crv of course 



620 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO V 



CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward ; 

For eastern stays are Uttle made to pad, 
So that a poniard pierces if 'tis stuck hard; 

She thought of killing Ju9.n — but, poor lad! 

Though he deserved it well for being so backward. 

The cutting otF his head was not the art 

INIoft hkely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan was moved: he had made up his mind 
To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 

For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined. 
Or thrown to hons, or made baits for fish, 

And thus heroically stood resign'd. 

Rather than sin— except to his own wish: 

But all his great preparatives for dying 

Dissolved hke snow before a woman crying. 

CXLII. 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed. 
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; 

And first he wonder'd why he had refused ; 
And then, if matters could be made up now ; 

And next his savage virtue he accused. 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 

Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 

CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 

Have sung, or even a dandy's dandiest chatter, 
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses; 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

CXLIV. 

^< Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!" 
('T was thus he spake) " and Empress of the Eju-th ! 

Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, 
Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth. 

Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 
Which your sublime attention may be worth ; 

The Sun himself has sent me like a ray 

To hint that he is coming up this way." 

CXLV. 

"Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, "as you say? 

i wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
H It bid my women form the milky way. 

Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warning — 
And, Christian! mingle with them as you may; 

And, as you'd have me pardon your past scorning — " 
ficre they were interrupted by a humming 
Sound, and men by a cry, " the Sultan's coming!" 

CXLVI. 
r u-sv came her damsels, a decorous file. 

And then his highness' eunuchs, black and whit* , 
Tne tram might reach a quarter of a mile: 

His r^ajesty was always so polite 
ft:s to announce his visits a long while 
Biifore he came, especial'y at night; 
i<!»r ho'mg the last wife of the emperor, 
tt'vA wasi' of course the favourite of the four. 



CXLVII. 

His highness was a man of solemn port, 

Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 

He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention'd in the histories 

Of Cantemir, or KnoUes, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line.^ 

CXLVIII. 

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
With more than "oriental scrupulosity;" 

He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
And show'd but little royal curiosity: 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
No process proved connubial animosity; 

Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 

W^ere ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 

The story scarcely pass'd a smgle lip — 
The sack and sea had settled all in time, 

From which the secret nobody could rip: 

The public knew no more than does this rhvme 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

JMorals were better, and the fish no worse. 

CL. 

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
VVas also certain that the earth was square, 

Because ne had journey'd fifty miles, and found 
No sign that it was circular any where ; 

His empire also was without a bound: 
*T is true, a little troubled here and there* 

By rebel })achas, and encroaching gioouhs, 

But then they never came to " ths* Soven Tcwei » , • 

CLL 

Except m shape of envoyt), who were sent 
To lodge there when a wai broke out, according 

To the true law of iial»or».j, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels *'Aio have never had a sword in 

Their dirty diplou^auc hands, to vent 

Their spleen <h hiaking strife, and safely wording 

Their hes, yr.o,jt despatches, without risk or 

The singeinj, of a single inky whisker. 

CLII. 

He had fJ.iy daughters and four dozen sons, 

Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd. 
The ffjAner in a palace, where like nuns 

Th'T'.y lived till some bashaw was sent abroad, 
Whoii she, whose turn it was, wedded at once, 

.Sometimes at six years old — though this seems odd, 
' I' is true ; the reason is, that the bashaw- 
Must make a present to his sire in law. 

CLIII. 
His sons were kept in prison till they grew 

Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 
One or the other, but which of the two 

Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 
Meantime the education they went through 

Was princely, as the proofs have always shown 
So that the heir apparent still was found 
•No less deservmg to be hang'd than crown'a. 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAN. 



621 



CLIV. 

His majesty saluted his fourth spouse 

With all the ceremonies of his rank, 
Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, 

As suits a matron who has play'd a prank ; 
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank ; 
To no men are such cordial greetings given 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 

CLV. 
His highness cast around his great black eyes, 

And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 
Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, 

At which he seem'd no whit surprised, nor grieved, 
But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 

While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 
" I see you 've bought another girl ; 't is pity 
That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CLVI. 
This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 

The new -bought virgin, made her blush and shake. 
Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 

Oh, Mahomet ! that his majesty should take 
hinAi notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 

Of them his hps imperial ever spake ! 
There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLVII. 
The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 

The women up — because, in sad reality, 
'1 heir chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality, 
Which in the north prevents precocious crimes, 

And makes our snow less pure than our morality ; 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 
Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLVIII. 
Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause. 

Though not for want of matter ; but 't is time, 
According to the ancient epic laws, 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 
Let this fifth canto meet with due applause. 

The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 
Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 
Fou '11 pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



PREFACE 

TO 

CANTOS VI. VII. VIE. 



The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the fol- 
lowing cantos (i. e. the 7th and eighth) are taken from a 
French work, entided " Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie." 
Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really 
occurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving 
the infant, which was the actual case of the late Due 
de Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian 
service, and afterwards the founder and benefactor of 
Odessa, where his name and memory can never cease 
lo be regarded with reverence. In the course of these 
3F 



cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to the 
late Marquis of Londonderry, but written some time 
before his decease. Had that person's oligarchy died 
with him, they would have been suppressed ; as it is, I 
am aware of nothing in the manner of his death or of 
his life to prevent the free expression of the opinions 
of all whom his whole existence was consumed in en- 
deavouring to enslave. That he was an amiable man 
m private life, m.ay or may not be true ; but with this 
the public have nothing to do : and as to lamenting his 
death, it will be time enough when Ireland has ceased 
to mourn for his birth. As a minister, I, for one of 
millions, looked upon him as the most despotic in in- 
tention, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyran- 
nized over a country. It is the first time indeed since 
the Normans, that England has been insulted by a min- 
ister (at least) who could not speak English, and that 
ParUament permitted itself to be dictated to in the lan- 
guage of Mrs. Malaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, ex- 
cept that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or 
Watson, had cut his throat, he would have been buried 
in a cross-road, with the usual appurtenances of the 
stake and mallet. But the minister was an elegant 
lunatic — a sentimental suicide — he merely cut the 
"carotid artery" (blessings on their learning!) — and 
lo! the pageant, 'and the abbey, and "the syllables 
of dolour yelled forth" by the newspapers — and the 
harangue of the coroner in an eulogy over the bleed- 
ing body of the deceased — (an Antony worthy of such 
a Caesar) — and the nauseous and atrocious cant of a 
degraded crew of conspirators against all that is sincere 
or honourable. In his death he was necessarily one of 
two things by the law— a, felon or a madman — and in 
either case no great subject for panegyric' In his life 
he was — v.hat all the world knows, and half of it will fee/ 
for years to come, unless his death prove a "moral les- 
son " to the surviving Sejani ^ of Europe. It may at least 
serve as some consolation to the nations, that their op- 
pressors are not happy, and in some instances judge so 
justly of their own actions as to anticipate the sentence 
of mankind. — Let us hear no more of this man, and let 
Ireland remove the ashes of her Grattan from the sanc- 
tuary of Westminster. Shall the Patriot of Humanity 
repose by the Werther of Politics ! ! ! 

With regard to the objections which have been made 
on another score to the already pubhshed cantos of 
this poem, I shall content myself with two quotations 
from Voltaire : — 

" La pudeur s'est enfuie des cceurs, et s'est refugiee 
sur les levres." 

" Plus les mceurs sont depravees, plus les expressions 
deviennent mesurees ; on croit regagner en langage ce 
qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and 
hypocritical mass which leavens the present Englit^ 
generation, and is the only answer they deserve. The 
hackneyed and lavished title of blasphemer — which 

1 I say by the law of the land — the laws of humanity jud?e 
more gently ; but as the legitimates have always the caw in 
their mouths, let tliom here make the most of it. 

2 From this number must be excepted Canning. Cannmg is e 
genius, almost a universal one : an orator, a wit, a poet, 8 
statesman -, and no man of talent can long pursue the path o 
his late predecessor, Lord C. If ever man saved his counVv 
Canning can ; but will he 7 I, for one, hone so. 



622 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO VI 



with radical, liberal, jacobin, reformer, etc., are the 
changes which the hirelings are daily ringing in the 
ears of those who will listen — should be welcome to 
all who recollect on lohom it was originally bestowed. 
Socrat€5 and Jesus t'hrist were put to death pubUcly 
as bl'isphemers, and so have been and may be many 
who dare to oppose the most notorious abuses of the 
name of God' and t)ie mind of man. But persecution 
is not refutation, nor even triumph : the wretched infi- 
del, as he is called, is probably happier in his prison 
than the proudest of his assailants. With his opinions 
I have nothing to do — they may be right or wrong — 
but he has suffered for them, and that very suffering 
for conscience sake will make more proselytes to Deism 
than the example of heterodox' prelates to Christianity, 
suicide statesmen to oppression, or overpensioned hom- 
icides to the impious alliance which insults the world 
with the name of " Holy !" I have no wish to trample 
on the dishonoured or the dead ; but it would be well 
if the adherents to the classes from whence those per- 
sons sprung should abate a little of the cant which is the 
crying sin of this double-dealing and false-speaking time 
of selfish spoilers, and — but enough for the present. 

1 When Lord Sandwich said " he did not know the differ- 
ence between orthodoxy and heterodoxy,"— Warburton, the 
bishop, replied, "Orthodoxy, my lord, \»my doxy, and hete- 
rodoxy is another mail's doxy."— A prelate of the present day 
has discovered, it seems, a third kind of doxy, which has not 
greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect, that which Benfham 
calls " Church-of-Englandism.' 



CANTO YI. 



" There is a tide in the affairs of men 

Which, taken at the flood" — you know the rest, 
And most of us have found it, now and then ; 

At least we think so, though but few have guess'd 
The moment, till too late to come again. 

But no doubt every thmg is for the best — 
Of which the surest sign is m the end : 
When things are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 

II. 
There is a tide in the affairs of women 

"Which, taken at the flood, leads" — God knows 
where : 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair ; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
INIen, with their heads, reflect on this and that — 
But women, with their hearts, on Heaven knows what ! 

III. 
And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 

Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 
\ throne, the world, the universe, to be 

Beloved m her own way, and rather whisk 
The stars fron. out the sky, than not be free 

As arc the billows when the breeze is brisk — 
Though such a she's a devn (if that there be one), 
Vnt she would make full many a Manichean. 



IV. 

Thrones, worlds, et cetera^ are so oft upset 

By commonest ambition, that when passion 
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 

Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 
If Antony be well remember'd yet, 

'T is not his conquests keep his name in tashion 
But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 
Outbalance all the Caesars' victories. 

V. 
He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport — I 

Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart : as the world went, J 
Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could nevei 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever, 

VI. 
'T was the boy's "mite," and, like the "widow's," maj 

Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 
But whether such things do, or do not, weigh, 

All who have loved, or love, will still allow 
Life has nought hke it. God is love, they say, 

And Love 's a god, or was before the brow 
Of Earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
Of— but chronology best knows the years. 

We left our hero and third heroine in 

A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
For gentlemen must sometimes .risk their skin 

For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin. 

And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 

VIII. 
I know G ulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 

I own It, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
But I detest all fiction, even in song. 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim 

Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 
I am not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 

But by "the bookish theoric" it appears, 
If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision. 

That, adding to the account his Highness' years, 
The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 

For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, 
She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 
Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

X. 
It is observed that ladies are litigious 

L^pon all legal objects of possession, 
And not tlie least so when they are religious. 

Which doubles what they think of the transgression 
With suits and prosecution they besiege us, 

As the tribunals show through many a session. 
When they suspect that anv one goes shares 
In that to which tlie law m-\Afcs them sole hehs. 



CANIO VI. 



DON JUAN. 



623 



XI. 

Now, if this holds goed m a Christian land, 
The heathens also, though with lesser latitude, 

Are apt to carry things with a high hand, 
And take what kings call " an imposing attitude ;" 

And for their rights connubial make a stand, 
When their hege husbands treat them with ingratitude; 

And as four wives must have quadruple claims. 

The Tigris has its jealousies like Thames. 

xri. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 

The favourite ; but what 's favour amongst four ? 

Polygamy may well be held in dread. 
Not only as a sin, but as a bore : 

Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed. 
Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 

And all (except Mahometans) forbear 

To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 

Xtll. 

His highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
So styled according to the usual forms 

Of every monarch, till they are consigned 
To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms. 

Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — 
His highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 

Expecting all the welcome of a lover, 

(A " Highland welcome " all the wide world over). 

XIV. 

Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 

May look like what is — neither here nor there : 
They are put on as easily as a hat, 

Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 

Which form an ornament, but no more part 

Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 

XV. 

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 

Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 

Rather to hide what pleases most unknown. 
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
A sincere woman's breast, — for over warm 
Or over cold annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 
For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire ; 
Fot no one, save in very early youth. 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount : -while your over chilly 
Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly. — 

XVII. 
That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 

For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 
Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd. 

And see a sentimental passion glow, 
Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 

In his Monastic Concubine of Snow ; — 
In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 
EJoratian, "Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 



XVIII. 

The " tu " 's too much, — but let it stand — the verse 
Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme. 

And not the pink of old Hexameters ; 

But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time 

In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime • 

I own no prosody can ever rate it 

As a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. 

XIX. 

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 

Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
Than other articles of female dress. 

Self-love in man too beats all female art ; 
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less : 

And no one virtue yet, except starvation. 

Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose ; 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes ; 

Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 

XXI. 

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 

A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted • 

A bad old woman making a worse will. 

Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 

As certain ; — these are paltry things, and yet 

I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

XXII. 

I 'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 

Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! not womankind ! 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall. 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil cali. 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growl>» 
Is more than I know — the deuce take them both. 

XXIII. 
So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse. 
Which doth your true believer so much please: 

I doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 

'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, 
And decorates the book of Common Pray eh. 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XXIV. 
Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 

At least one of them — Oh the heavy night ! 
When wicked wives who love some bachelor 

Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 
Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 

Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite. 
To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake, 
Lest their too lawful be-^ 'fellow should wak»i. 



6^34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO VI. 



XXV. 

re beneath the canopy of heav( 



'J'lies(. 

Also beneath the canopy of beds, 
t'our-postcd and silk-curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call "driven 

Snow." Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds. 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if a peasani's quean. 

XXVI. 

Don .Juan, in his feminine disguise, 

With all the damsels in their long array, 

Had bow'd themselves before the imperial eyes, 
And, at the usual signal, ta'en their way 

Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 

Their delicate hmbs ; a thousand bosoms there 

Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

XXVII. 

1 love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
The tyrant's wish " that mankind only had 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce :" 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad. 

And much more tender on the whole than fierce ; 
It being (not now, but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 

To kiss them all at once from North to South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 

And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 

In such proportion! — But my muse withstands 
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 

Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 
So let us back to LiUiput, and guide 

Our hero through the labyrinth of love 

In which we left him several lines above. 

XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely OdaUsques, 

At the given signal join'd to their array ; 
And though he certainly ran many risks. 

Yet he could not at times keep by the way, 
(Although the consequences of such frisks 

Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
tn moral England, where the thing's a tax), 
From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 
Siill he Forgot not his disguise: — along 

The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 
A virgin-like and edifying throng. 

By eunuchs flank'd ; while at their head there stalk'd 
A dame who kept up discipline among 

The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 
Without her sanction on their she-parades : 
He/ title was "the Mother of the Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whethiir she was a " mother," I know not, 

Or whether they were "maids" who call'd her mother; 

But this is her seraglio title, got 
I know not how, but good as any other ; 

Bo Cuiitemir can tell you, or De Tott: 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 

i'oung women, and correct them when they blunder'd. 



XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
More easy by the absence of all men 

Except his Majesty, who, with her aid. 

And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 

A slight example, just to cast a shade 
Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 

Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 

Where all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. 

xxxin. 

And what is that ? Devotion, doubtless — how 
Could you ask such a question? — but we will 

Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
Of ladies of all countries at the will 

Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
Like water-hlies floating down a rill, 

Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 

Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose. 

Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 

When freed from bonds (which are of no great use 

After all), or like Irish at a fair, 

Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truci 

Establish'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 

XXXV. 

Their talk of course ran most on the new comer. 
Her shape, her air, her hair, her every thing : 

Some thought her dress did not so much beconie her 
Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 

Some said her years were getting nigh their summer 
Others contended they were but in spnng ; 

Some thought her rather masculine in hf'ght. 

While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 

XXXVI. 

But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly," 

Who with the brightest Georgians might compare. 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz too could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
Although her beauty was enough to vex. 

After the first investigating view, 

They all found out as few, or fewer, specks. 

In the fair form of their companion new, 
Than is the custom of the gentle sex. 

When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, 

In a new face "the ugliest creature breathing." 

xxx^aii. 

And yet they had their Httle jealousies, 
Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion. 

Whether there are such things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation. 

Although they could not see through his disguise, 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 

Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 

You please — we will not quarrel about hat 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAN. 



62i 



XXXIX. 

But certain 'tis, they all felt for their new 

Companion something newer still, as 'tweie 
A sentimental friendship through and through, ' 

Extremely pure, which made them all concur 
In wishing her their sister, save a few 

Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 
Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 
They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 

XL. 
Of those who had most genius for this sort 

Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 
Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu ; — in short, 

(To save description), fair as fair can be 
Were they, according to the best report, 

Though differing in stature and degree. 
And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 
They all alike admired their new connexion. 

XLI. 
Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread. 
But rather sldm the earth ; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy. 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XLII. 
A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 

Yet very fit to " murder sleep'' in those 
Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 

Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose: 
Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where 
It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 

XLIII. 
She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit Uke a May-day breaking ; 
Her eyes were not too sparkhng, yet, half shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut 

From marble, Uke Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 
Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 

" Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 
Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 

"From Spain." — "But where is Spain?" — "Don't ask 
such stuff. 
Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame!" 

Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
To poor Katinka: "Spain's an island near 
Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 
DuGU said nothing, but sat down beside 

Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 
And, looking at her stedfastly, she sigh'd, 

As if she pitied her for being there, 
A pretty stranger, without friend or guide. 

And all abash'd too at the general stare 
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places. 
With kind remarks upon tlieir mien and faces. 
3r2 04 



XLVI. 

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near 

With " Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 
I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 

She added to Juanna, their new guest : 
" Your coming has been unexpected here. 

And every couch is occupied ; you had best 
Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
We will have all things settled for you fairly." 

XLVII. 
Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 

You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
That any body should disturb you ; so 

I '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 
Tb'o you would make the half of; — don't say no, 

And I of your young charge will take due care '* 
But here Katinka interfered and said, 

" She also had compassion and a bed." 
XLVIII. 
" Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 

The matron frown'd: " Why so ?" — "For fear o 
ghosts," 
Rephed Katinka ; "I am sure I see 

A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
And then I have the worst dreams that can be, 

Of Gucbres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts" 
The dame replied, " Between your dreams and you, 
I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 

XLIX. 

"You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 

Alone, for reasons which don't matter ; you 
The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 

And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 
Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy. 

And will not toss and chatter the night through. 
What say you, child ?" — Dudu said nothing, as 
Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 
But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 

Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 
Katinka too ; and with a gentle bow 

(Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) 
She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piques. 
The others pouting at the matron's preference 
Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deferenct 

LI. 
It w-as a spacious chamber (Oda is 

The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall 
Were couches, toilets — and much more than this 

I might describe, as I have seen it all. 
But it suffices — httle was amiss ; 

'T was on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall. 
With all things ladies want, save one or two, 
And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 
Dudii, as has been said, was a sweet creature. 

Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 
With the most regulated charms of feature. 

Which painters cannot catch like faces smnuif 
Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 

Which they hit olf at once in the boginnini-'. 
Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 
And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 



6-26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CJiNTO ri 



LIII. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
Where all was harmony and calm and quiet, 

Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth, 

Which, if not h?.ppiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 

Which some call " the sublime : " I wish they 'd try it : 

I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIV. 

But she N^as pensive more than melancholy, 
And serious more than pensive, and serene, 

It may be, more than either — not unholy 

Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 

She never thought about herself at all. 

LV. 

And therefore was she kind and gentle as 

The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 

By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
Thus most appropriately has been shown 

" Lucus a non Lucendo," not what was. 

But v^'ha-i was not; a sort of style that's grown 

Extremely common in this age, whose metal 

The devil may decompose but never settle : 

LVI. 

I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass 
This long parenthesis : I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class 

My faults even with your own ! which meaneth, put 

A kind construction upon them and me : 

But that you won't — then don't — I am not less free. 

LVII. 

T is time we should return to plain narration, 

And thus my narrative proceeds: — Dudu 
With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
This labyrinth of females, and each station 

Described — what's strange, in words extremely few: 
I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder, 
For wordless women, which is silent thunder. 

LVIII. 
And next she gave her (I say her, because 

The gender still was epicene, at least 
In outward show, which is a saving clause) 

An outline of the customs of the East, 
With all their chaste integrity of laws. 

By which the more a haram is increased, 
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 
Aiid then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 

Dudii was fond of kissing — which I 'm sure 
That nobody car. ever take amiss, 

Beci.c:se 't ia pleasant, so that it be pure, 
And between females means nc more than this — 

That they havp, nothing better near, or newer. 
* K-sjs " rhymes to " bhss " in fact as well as verse — 

w>sb it, never led to something worse. 



LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 

A child of nature, carelessly array'd ; 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'T was hke the fav.n which, in the lake display'.-!, 
Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass. 

When first she starts, and then returns to peep. 

Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside; but not before she offer'd 

Hei aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd — 

Which pass'd well off— as she could do no less : 
Though by this politesse she rather sufTer'd, 

Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins. 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 

Making a woman like a porcupine. 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread. 
Oh ye ! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine. 

In early youth, to turn a lady's maid; — 
I did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade: 
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 

LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise — 
And I love Wisdom more than she loves me ; 

My tendency is to philosophize 

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 

But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 

What are we ? and whence came we ? what shall be 

Our ultimate existence ? what 's our present ? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 

There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 

And distant from each other burn'd the Hghts, 
And Slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 

Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, 
They should have walk'd there in their spriteliest trim, 

By way of change from their sepulchral sites. 
And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste, 
Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 
Many and beautiful lay those around. 

Like flowers of different hue and clime and root 
In some exotic garden sometimes found. 

With cost and care and warmth induced to shoot. 
One, with her auburn tresses lightly bound. 

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath 
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 
One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm. 

And raven ringlets galher'd in dark crowd 
Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 

And, smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 
The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, 

As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud. 
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of n.chl 
All bashfully to struggle into light. 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAN. 



627 



LXVII. 

This is ivo bull, although it sounds so ; for 
'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. 

A third's all-pallid aspect offer'd more 
The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betray'd 

Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore 
Beloved and deplored: while slowly stray'd 

(As night dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 

The black bough) tear-drops thro' her eyes' dark fringes. 

LXVIII. 

A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still. 

Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 

White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, 

Or Lot's wife done m salt,— or what you will; — 
My similes are gather'd in a heap. 

So pick and choose — perhaps you '11 be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 

LXIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 

A lady of " a certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens ; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see 

As ere that awful period intervenes, 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 

LXX. 

But all this time how slept or dream'd Dudu, 
With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, 

And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 

Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, 
And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover. 

To those who like their company, about 

The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out: 

LXXL 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion : 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, 

All trembling, wondering, without the least notion. 
More than I have myself, of what could make 
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. 

Lxxn. 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
With floating draperies and with flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
And bosoms, arms, and ancles glancing bare. 

And bright as any meteor ever bred 

By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of care. 

For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 

Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. 

Lxxin. 

But what is strange — and a strong proof how great 
A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna ley 

As fast as ever husband by his mate 
In holy matrimony snores away. 

Not all the clamour broke her happy state 
Of "lumber, ere they shook her, — so they say, 

At least, — and then she too unclosed her eyes, 

And yawnd a good deal wilh discreet surprise. 



LXXIV. 

And now commenced a strict investigation. 

Which, as all spoke at once, and more than onoe 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 

Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But, being " no orator, as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 

At length she said, that, in a slumber sound, 
She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 

A "wood obscure." like that where Dante found' 
Himself in at the age when ail grow good ; 

Life's half-way house, v^here dames with virtue crown'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; — 

And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits. 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXVL 

And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 

Rather too high and distant; that she threw 
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 

Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 

Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 

To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 

But always at a most provoking height: — 

Lxxvn. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
It fell down of its own accord, before 

Her feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 
And pick it up, and bite it to the core ; 

That just as her young lip began to ope 
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 

A bee flew out and stung her to the heart. 

And so — she awoke with a great scream and start. 

LXXVIII. 

All this she told with some confusion and 

Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 
Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 

To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 
I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plcmn'o 

Prophetically, or that which one deems 
" A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 
By which such things are settled now-a-days. 

LXXIX. 
The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, 

Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
To scold a little at the false alarm 

That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
The matron too was wroth to leave her warm 

Bed for the dream she had been obliged to heai. 
And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd. 
And said thac she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 
" I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee, 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past ihrv^-. 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we mu«t see. 
To-morrow, what his highness's physx;i»n 
W ill say to this hysteric of a vIsiod. 



628 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO V. 



LXXXl. 

« And poor Juanna, too ! the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

With such a clamour — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone, 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 

With yo I, Dudi], a good night's rest have known; 

But now 1 must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolijh — though her couch is not so large." 

LXXXII. 

liolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, 
Resulting from the scolding or tlie vision. 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone), 
Juanna should be taken from her, and 
Her future drsams should all be kept in hand. 

LXXXIIl. 

She promised never more to have a dream, 
At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 

She wonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 

A fond hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 

And begg'd ihey would excuse her ; she 'd get over 

This wealoiess in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXW. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed. 

And said the felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed 
When all around rang like a tocsin-bell : 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming once " mal-a-propos." 

LXXXV. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round, 

And hid her face within Juanna's breast ; 
Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 

The colour of a budding rose's crest. 
I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 

The mystery of this rupture of their rest ; 
All that I know is, that the facts I state 
Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

LXXXVI. 
And so good night to them, — or, if you will. 

Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and light 
Began to clothe each Asiatic hill. 

And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 
Of the long caravan, which in the chill 

Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 
That stretches to the stony belt which girds 
Asia, where KafF looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 
With tne first ray, or rather gray of morn, 

Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 
As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil : 
'I hf nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 

^V hvh Fable places in her breast of wail, 
Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 
W^hos* headlong peissions form tlieir proper woes. 



LXXXVIII. 

And that 's the moral of this composition. 
If people would but see its real drift ; — 

But that they will not do without suspicion. 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While gentle writers also love to hft 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural — 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter aL 

LXXXIX. 

Rose the sultana from a bed of S'plendour, — 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

,So beautiful that art could little mend her. 

Though pale with conflicts between love and pride:— 

So agitated was she with her error. 

She did not even look into the mirror. 

xc. 

Also arose about the self-same time. 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime. 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
A thing of much less import in that clime — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
Than where two wives are under an embargo. 

XCI. 

He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other : as a man. 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty. 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

xcn. 

And now he rose : and after due ablutions, 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers, and other pious evolutions. 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased. 
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 

As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

XCIII. 
But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! 

Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
Thine ear, if it should reach, — and now rhymes wander 

Almost as far as Petersburg!!, and lend 
A dreadful .'mpulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blei . 
Their roar even with the Baltic's, — so you be 
Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. 

XCIV. 
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 

Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 

A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on • 
But people's ancestors are history's game ; 

And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
All generations, I should I'ke to know 
What pedigree the best would have to show? 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAN. 



629 



xcv. 

Had Catherine and the sultan understood 

Their own true interest, which kings rarely know, 

Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, 

There was a way to end their strife, although 

Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good. 
Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 

She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram. 

And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

XCVI. 

But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
His daily council upon ways and means, 

How to encounter with this martial scold. 
This Modern Amazon and Queen of queans ; 

And the perplexity could not be told 

Of all the pillars of the slate, which leans 

Som-jtimos a little heavy on the backs 

Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

XCVII. 

Meantinne Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone. 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 

For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, 
And rich w4th all contrivances which grace 

Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 

Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 

Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

xcvm. 

Mother-of-pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
Vied with each other on this costly spot; 

And singing-birds without were heard to warble; 
And the stain'd glass which hghted this fair gi-ot 

Varied each ray; — but all descriptions garble 
The true effect, and so we had better not 

Be too minute; an outline is the best, — 

\ Uvely reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 

4.nd here she summon'd Baba, and required 
Don Juan at his hands, and information 

Df what had pass'd since all the slaves retired. 
And whether he had occupied their station ; 

(f matters had been managed as desired. 
And his disguise with due consideration 

Kept up ; and, above all, the where and how 

He had pass'd the night, was what she vvish'd to know. 

C. 

Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions ask'd 
More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 

His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, 

JVhich hesitation niore betray'd than mask'd; 
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 

CI. 
Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 

Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 
She liked quick answers in all conversations; 

And when she saw hnn stumbling like a steed 
[n his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 

And as his speech grew still more broken-knee'd. 
Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 
'Vnd her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 



cn. 



When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through- 
He could not help the thing which he related : 

Then out it came at length, that to Dudu 

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated j 

But not by B aba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

cm. 

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole haram bore, 

As soon as they re-enter'd their own room, 
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door 

Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 

CIV. 

He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure, 
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact, 

'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
Because a foolish or imprudent act 

Would not alone have made him insecure. 
But ended in his being found out and sacVd 

And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 

Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 

CV. 

This he discreetly kept in the back ground. 

And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 

For any further answer that he found. 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow ; 

Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain wrtirl'd round, 
As if she had received a sudden blow. 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 

O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 

CVI. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd-^ 

It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 
Can never be described; we all have heard, 

And some of us have felt thus " all amort,''^ 

When things beyond the common have occurr'd ; 

Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 

What she could ne'er express — then how should I '/ 

cvn. 

She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 

Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 
Of inspiration gather'd from distress. 

When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 
The heart asunder; — then, as more or less 

Their speed abated, or their strength grew dull, 
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees. 
And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knee*. 

CVIII. 
Her face declined, and was unseen ; her hair 

Fell in long tresses like the weeping ^villow, 
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 

Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, — 
A low, soft ottoman), and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow 
Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles cneo 
Its farther course, but muat recti re 'is wreca. 



r,30 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO Vi 



CIX. 

I fer head hung down, and her long hair in stooping 
Conceal'd her features better than a veilj 

And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping. 
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 

Would that I were a painter! to be grouping 
All that a poet drags into detail! 

Oh tliat my words were colours! but their tints 

May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 

ex. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but silent still, 

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye — 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — but paused. 
And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 

Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace 

A feehng in each footstep, as disclosed 
By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 

By all the demons of all passions, show'd 

Their work even by the way in which he trode. 

CXII. 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: — "Slave! 

Bring the two slaves!" she said, in a low tone, 
But one which Baba did not lik* to brave, 

And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 

(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 
What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 
For fear of any error like the late. 

CXIII. 

"The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
The imperial bride — and added, " Let the boat 

Be ready by the secret portal's side : 
You know the rest." The words stuck in her throat, 

Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 
And of this Baba willingly took note. 

And begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 

She would revoke the order he had heard. 

CXIV. 

•' To hear is to obey," he said ; " but still, 
Sultana, think upon the consequence : 

It is not that I shall not all fulfil 

Your orders, even in their severest sense; 

But such precipi*ition may end ill. 
Even at your own imperative expense ; 

f do not mean destruction and exposure, 

[n case of any premature disclosure ; 

cxv. 

" But your own feelings. — Even siruuid all the rest 
B«^ hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 

Already many a once love-beaten breast 
Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 

you love this boyish, new seraglio guest. 
And — if this violent remedy be tried — 

Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 

r>i*t killing him li not me way to cure you." 



CXVI. 

" What dost thou know of love or feeling ? — wretch ! 

Begone!" she cried, with kindling eyes, "and do 
My bidding!" Baba vanish'd ; for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further, he well knew. 
Might end in acting as his own "Jack Ketch;" 

And, though he wish'd extremely to get through 
This awkward business without harm to others, 
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

CXVII. 

Away he went then upon his commission, 

Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 

Against all women, of whate'er condition, 
Especially sultanas and their ways; 

Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 

Their never knowing their own mind two days, 

The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 

Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 

C XVIII. 

And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, 
And sent one on a summons to the pair. 

That they must instantly be well array'd. 
And, above all, be comb'd even to a hair, 

And brought before the empress, who had made 
Inquiries after them with kindest care : 

At which Dudii look'd strange, and Juan silly; 

But go they must at once, and will I — n>U I. 

CXIX, 

And here I leave them at their preparation 
For the imperial presence, wherein whether 

Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, 
Or got rid of the parties altogether — 

Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
Are things the turning of a hair or feather 

Mav settle ; but far be 't from me to anticipate 

In wnat way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

cxx. 

I leave them for the present, with good wishes, 
Though doubts of their well-doing, to arrange 

Another part of history ; for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes change 

And, trusting Juan may escape the fishes. 
Although his situation now seems strange 

And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair 

The muse will take a httle touch at warfare. 



CANTO YII. 



I. 

Oh love! Oh glory! what are ye? who fly 

Around us ever, rarely to ahght; 
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more fieetmg flight. 
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 

Our eyes in search of either lovely light; 
A thousand and a thousand colours they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 



CANTO VIL 



DON JUAN. 



631 



II. 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail us, 
But ne'ertheless, I hope it is no crime 

To '"Ugh at all things: for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a show 7 

III. 

They accuse me — me — the present writer of 
The present poem, of — I know not what, — 

A tendency to underrate and scoff 

At human power and virtue, and all that ; 

And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God ! I wonder what they would be at ? 

I say no more than has been said in Dante's 

Verse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes ; 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 

By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 

Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 

T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato. 

Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die. 

But which is best, you know no more than I. 

V. 

Socrates said, our only knowledge was, 

"To know that nothing could be known ;" a pleasant 
Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas ! 

Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, 
That he himself felt only "like a youth 
Picking up shells by the great ocean — truth." 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes said, that all is vanity — 

Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 
By their exampks of true Christianity ; 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it : 
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity, 

By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 
Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 
From holding up the nothingness of life ? 

VII. 
Dogs, or men ! (for I flatter you in saying 

Tnat ye are dogs — your betters far) ye may 
Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 

To show ye what ye are in every way. 
As little as the moon stops for the baying 

Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray 
From out her skies ;— ^then howl your idle wrath ! 
While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 
»* Fierce loves and faithless wars" — lam not sure 

If this be the right reading — 't is no matter ; 
The fact's about the same; I am secure; — 

I sing them both, and am about to batter 
A town which did a famous siege endure, 

And was beleaguer'd both by land and water 
Hy Suvaroff, or anglice Suwarrow, 
Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 



IX. 

The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 

With buildings in the oriental taste. 

But still a fortress of the foremost ranK, 

Or was, at least, unless 't is since defaced. 

Which with your conquerors is a common praiiii 

It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 

And measures round of toises thousands three. 

X. 

Within the extent of this fortification 
A borough is comprised, along the height 

Upon the left, which, from its loftier station. 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upright. 

So placed as to impede the fire of those 

Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

XI. 

This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
Of the high talents of this new Vauban ; 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean. 
The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang : 

But then there was a great want of precaution, 
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), 

Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, 

To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 

XII. 

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our Saint George, 
Case-mated one, and 't other a "barbette," 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge ; 
While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set, 

Rose o'er the to\^Ti's right side, in bristling tier, 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town 's open quite, 

Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 

And such their creed was, till they were invadeo. 
When it grew rather late to set things right. 

But as the Danube could not well be waded. 
They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla. 
And only shouted, "Alia!" and " Bis Millah !'^ 

XIV. 
The Russians now were ready to attack ; 

But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
How shall I spell the name of eaoli Cossack 

Who were immortal, could one tell their story? 
Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 

Achilles self was not more grim and gory 
Than thousands of this new and poHsh'd nation, 
Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 

XV. 
Still I '11 record a few, if but to increase 

Our euphony — there was Strongenoff, and Stiokonoil, 
Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arseniew of modern Greece, 

And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenof!, 
And others of twelve consonants apiece : 

And more might be found out, if I could poke enough 
Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet!) 
It seems, has got a,n ear as well as trumoet. 



(>3-~2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO VII 



XVI. 



And cannot tune those discords of narration, 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme. 

Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was wgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words too, fitted for the peroration 
Of liondonderry, drawling against time. 

Ending in "ischskin," "ousckin," "iffskchy," "ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 

XVII. 

Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Eoklophti, 
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, 

Ail proper men of weapons, as e'er scofF'd high 
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 

And no more handy substitute been near. 

XVIII. 

Then there were foreigners of much renown. 
Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 

Not fighting for their country or its crown. 
But wishing to be one day brigadiers ; 

Also to have the sacking of a town — 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 

'JMongst them were several Englishmen of pith, 

Sixteen call'd Thompson, and nineteen named Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack Thompson and Bill Thompson ; — all the rest 
Had been call'd " Je773W!_z/," after the great bard; 

I don't know whether they had arms or crest, 
But such a godfather 's as good a card. 

Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward. 

Was Ae, since so renown'd " in country quarters 

At Halifax;" but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills ; 

But when I 've added that the elder Jack Smith 
Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 

And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
I "ve said all / know of a name that fills 

Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmacsmith," 
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherehi 
He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 
I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
May make up for a bullet in his body ? 

I hope this httle question is no sin, 
Eecause, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doating, 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 
I'hei tlipre were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay : 

But I 'm too great a patriot to record 
Their gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I 'd rather ten ten aes than say a word 
•Jf truth; — such tiuths are treason: they betray 

Their coiintry. and, as traitors are abhorr'd, 
Wno name the French and English, save to show 
How p^ace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. 



XXIII. 

The Russians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends m view ; 

The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
The public buildings, and the private too, 

No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
The city's shape suggested this, 't is true ; 

Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 

The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh. 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors. 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers j 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 

Com.mon in many cases, was in this 

The cause of killing TchitchitzkofT and Smith : 

One of the valorous " Smiths" whom we shall miss 
Out of those nineteen v/ho late rhymed to " pith ;" 

But 'tis a name so spread o'er "Sir" and "Madam,'' 

That one would think the first who bore it " Adam.^ 

XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete. 

Because they were constructed in a hurry. 

Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
As they who print them think is necessary. 

May likewise put olF for a time what story 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 

XXVII. 

Whether it was their engineers' stupidity, 

Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, 
Or some contractor's personal cupidity. 

Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 
Of homicide ; but there was no solidity 

In the new batteries erected there ; 
They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, 
And added greatly to the missing Ust. 

XXVIII. 
A sad miscalculation about distance 

Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 
Three fire-ships lost their amiable existence. 

Before they reach'd a spot to take efl^ect : 
The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 

Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 
Tbey blew up in the middle of the river. 
While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as »vts 

XXIX. 
At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 

The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd. 

Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade. 

Which was return'd with interest, I may say. 
And by a fire of musketry and grape. 
And shells and shot of every size and shape. 



CANTO vn. 



DON JUAN. 



633 



XXX. 

For six h>urs bore they \\nthout intermission 
The Turkish fire ; and, aided by their o■^^^l 

f jand batterits, work'd their guns with great precision : 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

3ne bark blew up ; a second, near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 

XXXI. 

The Moslem too had lost both ships and men; 

But when they saw the enemy retire. 
Their Delhis niann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 

And gall'd the Russians with a heavj' fire. 
And tried to make a landing on the main. 

But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
Count Damas drove them back into the water 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 

XXXII. 

"If" (says the historian here) "I could report 
All that the Russians did upon this day, 

I think that several volumes would fall short, 
And I should still have many things to say ;" 

And so he says no more — but pays his court 
To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray, 

The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 

Names great as any that the roll of fame has. 

XXXIII. 

This being the case, may show us what fame is; 

For out of three '■'■prefix chevaliers,''^ how 
Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed? (and they may live now 
For aught we know). Renown's all hit or miss; 

There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 
'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 
Have half withdrawn from him obhvion's skreen. 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
But buried in the heap of such transactions — 

Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions. 

And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 

Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault ; 
And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 

Most strongly recommended an assault ; 
In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 

Which made a long debate : — but I must halt ; 
For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 
I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 
There was a man, if that he was a man, — 

Not that his manhood could be call'd in question. 
For, had he not been Hercules, his span 

Had been as short in youth as indigestion 
Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 

He died beneath a tree, as much unbless'd on 
The soil of the green province he had wasted, 
As e'er was locust on the land it blasted ; — 
3 G Ji.n 



XXXVII. 

This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great, 

If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent. 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the mean time the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briskly fired and answer'd m due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the tliirteenth, when already part 

Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in wear's art, 

By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase. 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Suvaroff. 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial,— 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

"You will take Ismail, at whatever price." 

XLI. 

" Let there be light !" said God, " and there was light I" 
" Let there be blood !" says man, and there 's a sea ' 

The fiat of this spoil'd child of the night 

(For day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 

More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 

Summers could renovate, though they should be 

Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit — 

For war cuts up not only branch but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends the Turks, who with loud " Alias " n( w 

Began to signalize the Russ retreat, 
Were damnably mistaken; few are slow 

In tninking that their enemy is beat 
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat) ; 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken. 
Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 

XLIII. 
For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop drew 

In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd CossacAi" 
For some time, till they came in nearer view. 

They had but httle baggage at their backs. 
For there were but three shirts between the twu , 

But on they rode upon two LTvraine hacits, 
Till, in approaching, were at length descried 
In this plain pair, Suwarrow anct his guol 



634 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO VII 



XLIV. 

"Great jo}' to Lonaon now!" says some great fool, 
When London had a grand iUumination, 

Which, to that bottle-conjuror, John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full. 
That sage i^said John) surrenders at discretion 

Ifis purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 

'I J gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 

'Tis strange that he should further "damn his eyes," 
For they are damn'd; that once all-famous oath 

Is to the devil now no further prize. 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 

Debt he calls wealth, and taxes, paradise ; 
And famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 

Which stares him in the face, he won't examine. 

Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XLVI. 

Eut to the tale. Great joy unto the camp ! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp. 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp. 

Which leads beholders on a boggy wallt. 
He flitted to and fro, a dancing Ught, 
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 

XLVII. 

But, certcs, matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause. 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace. 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines. 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLVIII. 

Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction. 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind. 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection: 

Or as a little dog will lead the blind. 

Or a bellweather form the flock's connexion 

By tinkling sounds when they go forth to victual: 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 

The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought 

That they were going to a marriage-feast, 
(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 

Smce there is discord after both at least), 
Thero was not now a luggage-boy but sought 

Danger and spoil with ardour much increased; 
And why? because a little, odd, old man, 
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 
tSut so it was ; and every preparation 

Was made with all alacrity ; the first 
rielarhnient of three columns took its station. 

Ana waited but the signal's voice to burst 
!;pon the foe: the second's ordination 

Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
Vn\ glnrv gaping o'er a sea of slaughter ; 
n-f. ihir^l, in columns two, attack'd by water. 



LI 

New batteries were erected ; and was held 
A general council, in which unanimity, 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 
As sometimes happens in a groat extremity ; 

And, every difficulty bemg expell'd. 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 

While Suvaroff, determined to obtain it, 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. ' 

LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
His time, a corporal's duties to fulfil : 

Just as you'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill; 

He shov/'d them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

LIII. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks. 

And made them charge with bayonets these machines 
By way of lesson against actual Turks. 

And, when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
He judged them proper to assail the works ; 

At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty :— • 

He made no answer; but he took the city. 

LIV. 

Most things were in this posture on the eve 
Of the assault, and all the camp was in 

A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive : 
Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and thm, 

Are very silent when they once believe 
Thai all is settled : — there was httle din. 

For some were thinking of their home and friends. 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert. 

Surveying, drilUng, ordering, jesting, pondermg: 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half dirt. 

Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to storm 
A fortress, Harlfequin in uniform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 

For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 
Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill. 

Had met a party, towards the twihght's fall. 
One of whom spoke their tongue, or well or ill 

'T was much that he was understood at all ; 
But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner. 
They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 

LVII. 
Whereon, immediately at his request. 

They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters : 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest 

Lurk'd Christianity; who sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and mak«s 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 



UAISTO VII. 



DON JUAN. 



635 



LVIII. 

feuwarrow, who was standing in his shirt, 

Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert. 

And lecturing on the nobla art of killing, — 
For, deeming human clay but common dirt. 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 
His maxims, which, to martial comprehension, 
Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 

LIX. 
Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 

" Whence come ye ?" — " From Constantinople last. 
Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 

" What are ye ?"—" What you see us." Briefly past 
This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. 
*' Your names?" — "Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade's 
Juan ; 
The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said : " I have heard 
Your name before, the second is a new one ; 
To bring the other three here was absurd ; 
Bui let that pass ; — I think I 've heard your name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment?" — "The same." — 

LXI. 
"You served at Widin?" "Yes." "You led the attack?" 
" I did."—" What next ?"— " I really hardly know." 
" You were the first i' the breach ?" — " I was not slack, 

At least, to follow those who might be so." — 
" What follow'd ?" — " A shot kid me on my back, 

And I became a prisoner to the foe." — 
" You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded 
Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 

LXII. 
** Where will you serve ?" — " Where'er you please." — 
"I know 
You like to be the hope of the forlorn. 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
After the hardships you 've already borne. 
And this young fellow ? say what can he do ? — 

He with the beardless chin, and garments torn." — 
"Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the assault." — 

LXIII. 
" He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 

Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
Continued: "Your old regiment's allow'd, 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 
Or it maybe to-night, the assault: I'vevow'd 

To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 
Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

Lxiy. 

"So now, my lads, for glory!" — Here he turn'd, 
Ard drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd 
All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on 

To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 

The ?»-mies of the Christian Empress Catlierine. 



LXV. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
Himself a favourite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
In his resumed amusement. " I confess 

My debt, in being thus allow'd to die 

Among the foremost; but if you'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self would know what duty to attend." — 

LXVI. 

" Right I I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which should b«> 

Now under arms. Ho ! KatskofF, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) — 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 

He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new, 
Although their haram education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, 
Passive obedience, — now raised up the head. 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their arms, as hens their wings about their younp^ 

LXVIII. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

Oh, foolish mortals ! always taught in vain ! 
Oh, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tree, 

Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea . 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears. 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears, 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling : for, however habit sears 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trad* 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will toucn even heroes — and such was Suwauow, 

LXX. 

He said — and in the kindest Calmuck tone— 

" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 
By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 

All the attention possible, and seen 
In safety to the wagons, where alone 

III fact they can be safe. You should have beer- 
Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 
Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.* 

LXXI. 

"May it please your excellency," thus replied 
Our British friend, "these are the wives of othe!» 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers. 

To break the rules by bringing one's own Drin* 
Into a camp ; I know that nought so botherv 

The hearts of *^£t heroi" on a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 



G36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO vn 



LXXII. 

' ' But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 

With their attendant aided our escape, 
And afterwards accompanied us through 

A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
To liie this kind of life is not so new ; 

To them, poor things ! it is an awkward step ; 
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 
Jlequest that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 
Meantime, these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 

Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 

Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
Xo see an old man, rather wild than wise 

In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 
Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean. 
More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 
For ever}' thing seem'd resting on his nod. 

As they could read in all eyes. Now, to them. 
Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god. 

To see the su!tan, rich in many a gem, 
Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 

(That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem), 
With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 
How po'ver could condescend to do without. 

LXXV. 
John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay. 

Though little versed in feelings oriental, 
Suggested some slight comfort in his w-«*y. 

Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, 
Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, 

Or that the Russian army should repent all: 
And, strange to say, thyy found some consolation 
In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 
And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses. 

They parted for the present — these to await, 
According to the artillery's hits or misses. 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 

A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
While their beloved friends began to arm. 
To burn a town %vhich never did them harm. 

LXXVII. 
Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross — 

Being much too gross to see them ui detail; 
Who calculated life as so much dross. 

And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail. 
And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 
As wife and friends did for the boils of Job ; — 
Wba* was 't to him to hear two women sob? 

LXXVIII. 

^^othmg. The work of glory still went on, 

In preparations for a cannonade 
^s terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer haa found mortars ready made ; 
Rut now, mstead of slaying Priam's son. 

We only can but talk of escalade, 
Itomos, firunis, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, 

bullets. 
Hard words whirh stirk in the soft Muses' gullets. 



LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long — all ages, though so short, 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 

Arms to which men w ill never niore resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 

To paint a siege, wherein more men were slait, 
With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 

Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 
And yet, like all men else, I mus» al'ow. 

To vie with thee would be about as vam 
As for a brook to cope with ocean's Hood ; 
But still we moderns equal yovi in blood — 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact : 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 

Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, 
There should be, ne'ertheless, a slight substratum. 

But now the town is gonig to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'en> ? 

Souls of immortal generals ! Phcsbus watches 

To colour up his rays from your despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte ! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded 
Shade of Leonidas ! who fought so hearty, 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrow-ndcd 
Oh, CfEsar's Commentaries ! now impart ye. 

Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading tw^ilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting to the Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When I call "fading" m.artial immortality, 

I mean, that every age and every year, 
And almost every day, in sad reality, 

Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear. 
Who, when we come to sum up thf. totality 

Of deeds to human happiness m»stdear. 
Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 
Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 
Medals, ranks, ribbons, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 

Are things immortal to immortal man. 
As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 

An uniform to boys is like a fan 
To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet, 

But deems himself the first in glory's van. 
But glory 's glory ; and if you would find 
What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind . 

LXXXV. 
At least he feels it^ and some say he sees^ 

Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
Or, if that simple sentence should disjilease, 

Say that he scuds before it lik^ a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This canto, ere my INIuse perceives fatigue. 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village-steeple. 



i 



CANTO nil. 



DON JUAN. 



63" 



LXXXVI. 

Hark ! througli the silence of the cold dull night, 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank ! 

Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling Ught 

The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank. 

Which curl in curious wreaths — How soon the smoke 

Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful pause, dividing hfe from death, 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 

Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath ! 

A moment — and all will be life again ! 

The march ! the charge ! the shouts of either faith ! 

Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more — 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO Till. 



Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds! 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, 
Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds : 

And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her theme, 
So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Beflona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

II. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To wield them in their terrible array. 
The army, like a lion from his den, 

March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay — 
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way. 
Whose heads were heroes, which, cut off in vain, 
Immediately in others grew again. 

III. 
History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss. 

War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
To waste so much gold for a little dross, 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of hoiaest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 
And why ? because it brings self- approbation ; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare. 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a wation — 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare— 
A. hisrher title, or a loftier station. 

Though they may make corruption gape or stare 
Vet, in the end, except in freedom's battles, 
\re nothing but a child of murder's rattles. 
•6g'2 



And such they are — and such they will be found. 

Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground. 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undcrie 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 
While the mere victors may appal or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchword till the future shall be free. 

VI. 
The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, 
Which arch'd the horizon li^e a fiery cloud, 

And in the Danube's waters shone the same, 
A mirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 

Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 
The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes 
Spare, or smite rarely — Man's make millions ashes I 

VII. 
The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 

Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last. 

Answering the Christian thunders with like voices ; 
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced. 
Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noires ; 
While the whole rampart bkzed like Etna, when 
The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 
And one enormous shout of "Allah!" rose 

In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 
Resounded "Allah!" and the clouds, which close 

With thickening canopy the conflict o'er. 
Vibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark ! througt. 
All sounds it pierceth, "Allah! Allah! Hu!'" 

IX. 
The columns were in movement, one and all : 
But, of the portion which attack'd by water. 
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall. 

Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaught©-. 
As brave as ever faced both boom and ball. 
"Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's 
daughter:" ^ 
If /le speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 
Count Chapeau-Bras too had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to De 

Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap ; in fact the ball could meao 
No harm unto a right legitimate head: 
"Ashes to ashes" — why not lead to lead? 

XI. 
Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 
Insisting on removal of the prinre, 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying neai, - 

All common fellows, who might writhe and •wnice. 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General Markow, who could thus evjice 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 
To teach him greater, had his own hg broken. 



fi38 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO f^Ilt. 



XII. 



I'hre'; hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 

Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills ; 

Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 

Past, present, and to come ; — but all may yield 

To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony. 
Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard — 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket, — these reward 

Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 

May win, perhaps, a ribbon at the breast ! 

XIV. 

Yet I love glory ; glory 's a great thing ; 

Think what it is to be in your old age 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king : 

A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
And heroes are but made for bards to sing. 

Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 
Half-pay for Ufe, make mankind worth destroying. 

XV. 

The troops already disembark'd push'd on 
To take a battery on the right ; the others, 

Who landed lower down, their landing done, 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 

Being grenadiers, they mounted, one by one, 

Cheerful as children chmb the breasts of mothers, — 

O'er the rntrenchment and the palisade, 

Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 

XVI. 

And this was admirable; for so hot 

The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 
Bp sides its lava, with all sorts of shot 

And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. 
Of officers a third fell on the spot, 

A thing which victory by no means boded 
To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 

XVII. 
But here I leave the general concern. 

To track our hero on his paih of fame: 
He must his laurels separately earn ; 

For 6Ay thousand heroes, name by name, 
Though ail deserving equally to turn 

A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, 
And, what is worse still, a much longer story: 

XVIII. 
.And therefore we must give the greater number 

To the gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 
Itv the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 

In ditches, fields, or v/neresoe'er they felt 
I'heir ciay for the last time their souls encumber ; — 

Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 
In the despatch ; I knew a man whose loss 
V\ <ts o.inled Grove^ although his name was Grose.' 



XIX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps. 

And fought away with might and main, not knowing 

The way which they had never trod before. 

And still less guessing where thev /night be going , 

But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er. 
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing 

But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, 

To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 

Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining 

A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were straining ; 

At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 

Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining, 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 

A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 

XXI. 

Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
The nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch. 

Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 

Which stifTen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day ;— 

Yet for all this he did not run away. 

- XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had? 

There have been and are heroes who begun 
With something not much better, or as bad : 

Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run. 
For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 
Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks, 
And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 

Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic, 
(The antiquarians who can settle lime. 

Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, 
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same cliK*8 

With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
As any other notion, and not national); — * 

XXIV. 
But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 

A thing of impulse and a child of song : 
No\f swimming in the sentiment of joy, 

Cr the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong). 
And afterwards, if he must needs destroy. 

In such good company as always throng 
To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 
No less dehghted to employ his leisure ; 

XXV. 
But always without malice. If ne warr'd 

Or loved, it was with what we call " the best 
Intentions," which form all mankind's irump-card. 

To be produced when brought up to the test. 
The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 

Off" each attack when people a'o in quest 
Of their designs, by saying they rr-eant well; 
'Tis pity "that such meanings should jrave neL" 



CANTO vni. 



DON JUAN. 



633 



XXVI. 

; almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whether hell's pavement— if it be so paved — 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 
Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 

And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides. 
Just at the close of the first bridal year, 

By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides. 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing. 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII. 

* don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 

\nd that the rest had faced unto the right 
About ; a circumstance which has confounded 

Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 
1 courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 

And rally back his Romans to the field. 

XXIX. 

Juan, w ho had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought 

He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 

For a much longer time ; then, like an ass — 
(Start not, kind reader ; since great Homer thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one : ) — 

XXX. 

Then, like an ass, he went upon his way. 

And, what was stranger, never look'd behind j 

But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray. 
He stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 
Quite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (I can't 

Account for every thing which may look bad 
In history ; but we at least may grant 

It was not marvellous that a mere lad. 
In search of glory, should look on before, 
N^or care a pinch of snuff about his corps : ) — 

XXXII. 
I*erceiving nor commander nor commanded. 

And left at large, like a young heir, to make 
His way to — where he knew not — single-handed ; 

As travellers follow over bog and brake 
An "ignis fatuus," or as sailors stranded 

Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, 
Fo Juan, following honour and his nose, 
Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 



XXXIII. 

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 
For he was diz=:y, busy, and his veins 

Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 
The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 

And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard. 
And the loud cannon peal'd its hoarsest strains. 

He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 

By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon !^ 

XXXIV. 

And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 

Fell in with what was late the second column, 
Under the orders of the general Lascy, 

But now reduced, as is a bulky volume, 
Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 

Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 
Air, 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces, 
And levell'd weapons, still against the glacis. 

XXXV. 
Just at this crisis up came Johnson too. 

Who had " retreated," as the phrase is, when 
Men run away much rather than go through 

Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; 
But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to cut and come again," 
And never ran away, except when running 
Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 
And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 

Except Don Juan — a mere novice, whose 
More virgin valour never dreamt of flying. 

From ignorance of danger, which indues 
Its votaries, like innocence relying 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and thcwa,- 
Johnson retired a little, just to rally 
Those who catch cold in " shadows of death's valley." 

XXXVII. 
And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 

Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet. 
Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 

In this extensive city, sore beset 
By Christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil as yet, 
He found a number of chasseurs, all scatter'd 
By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 
And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they came 

Unto his call, unlike "the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim. 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb. 
And that odd impulse, which, in wars or creeds, 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 
By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 

And though his name than Ajax or Achilles 
Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 

We shall not see his likeness : he could kill hi& 
Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 

Her steady breath (which some months tiio sain« 
still is;) 
Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 
And could be verv busv without bustle ; 



040 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cAisro VIII. 



XL. 

And tlicrefoie, when he ran away, he did so 

Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
He would fin I others who would fain be rid so 

Of idle ap^irehensions, which, like wind. 
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 

Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
But when they light upon immediate death, 
Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLI. 

But Johnson only ran off to return 
With many other warriors, as we said, 

Unto that ratlier somewhat misty bourn, 
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 

To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern : 
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 

Acted upon the living as on wire, 

And led them back into the heaviest fire. 

XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 

To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuflf 

Which fills a regiment (besides their pay. 

That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)- 

They found on their return the self-same welcome, 

Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. 

XLHI. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, 
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 

Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail. 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 

Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIV. 

The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 

Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels. 

That Johnson, and some few who had not scamper'd, 

Reach'd the interior talus of th^ rampart. 

XLV. 

Thirst one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, , 

Oame mounting quickly up, for it was now 
All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, 

Flame was shower'd forth above as well's below. 
So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, — 

The gentlemen that were the first to show 
Their martial faces on the parapet. 
Or these who thought it brave to wait as yet. 

XLVI. 
But those who scaled found out that their advance 

Was favoar'd by an accident or blunder : 
ITie Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 

Had palisadoed in a way you 'd wonder 
A^ see in f ^rts of Netherlands or France — 

(Though these to oar Gioraltar must knock under) — 
Right in the middle of the parapet 
Just namea, these palisades were primly set: 



XLYII. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 
Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 

To march; a great convenience to our men 
At least to all those who were left alive, 

Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
And that which further aided them to strive 

Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass bladce 

XLVIII. 

Among the first, — I will not say the ^rsi^ 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations ; 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience. 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too ; — 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 

And God knows who besides in " au" and "ou," 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
Into the hearts of those who fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw. 

The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 

His orders, also to receive his pensions, 

Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 

L. 

But never mind ; — " God save the king !" and kings ' 
For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer. — 

I think I hear a little bird, who sings, 

The people by and by will be the stronger: 

The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 

Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 

At last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then. 

Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant , 
At last, it takes to weapons, such as men 

Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant. 
Then "comes the tug of war;" — 't will come again, 

I rather doubt ; and I would fain say " fie on 't,' 
If I had not perceived that revolution 
Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 
But to continue : — I say not the first. 

But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 
Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 

Amidst such scenes — though this was quite a new one 
To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 

Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, 
Pervaded him — although a generous creature. 
As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LIII. 
And here he was — who, upon woman's breast. 

Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 
The man in all the rest might be confess'd ; 

To him it was Elysium to be there ; 
And he could even withstand that awkward test 

Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fan, 
" Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ; ■* 
But Juan never left them while they'd charms. 



CANTO VI 11. 



DON JUAN. 



64. 



LIV. 

Unless compell'd by fate, or wave or wind, 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But here he was ! — where each tie that can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame: 

And he^ whose very body was all mind, — 

Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 

The loftiest, — hurried by the time and place, — 

Bash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LV. 

So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance. 
As is the hunter's at the five -bar gate. 

Or double post and rail, where the existence 
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 

The lightest being the safest: at a distance 
He hated cruelty, as all men hate 

Blood, until heated — and even there his own 

At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LVI. 

The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd. 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast. 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
T3 Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a "base Bezonian" 
(As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian. 

LVII. 

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 

In answer rhade an inclination to 

The general who held him in command ; 

For, seeing one with ribbons black and blue, 
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand. 

Addressing him m tones which seem'd to thank, 

He recognised an officer of rank. 

Lvni. 

Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
No common language; and besides, in time 

Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 

Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 

In, like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer. 

There cannot be much conversation there. 

LIX. 

And therefore all we have related in 

Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din. 

Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet. 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonizing voice! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 

" God made the country, aiid man made the town," 

So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
Ot his opinion, when I see cast down 

Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh — 
All walls men know, and many never known; 

And, pondering on the present and the past, 

To deem the woods shall be our home at last. 
86 



LXI. 

Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, 

Who passes for in life and death most lucky. 

Of the great names, which in our faces stare. 
The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky 

Was happiest amongst mortals any where ; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days, 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

LXII. 

Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
Of solitude ; health shrank nol from him — for 

Her home is in fhe rarely-trodden wild, 

Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 

Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety; 

LXIII. 

And what's still stranger, left behind a name — 
For which men vainly decimate the throng, — 

Not only famous, but of that good fame 

Without which glory's but a tavern song — 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame. 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wiong ; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 

Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his nation. 
When they built up unto his darling trees, — 

He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
Where there were fewer houses and more ease— - 

The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; - 

But, where he met the individual man. 

He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 

LXV. 

He was not all alone: around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase. 

Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwnnkled brow, nor could you view 
A frown on nature's or on human face ; — 

The free-born forest found and kept them free, 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall and strong and swift of foot were they 

Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions. 
Because their thoughts had never been the prey 

Of care or gain : the green woods were their portions , 
No sinking spirits told them they grew gray ; 

No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; 
Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles. 
Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXVII. 
Motion was in their days, rest in their slurnbeis, 

And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil ; 
Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 

Corruption could not make their hearts her soil. 
The lust which stings, the splendour which encumber» 

With the free foresters divide no spoil 
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 
Of this unsighing people of the woods 



r)42 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO Vlil. 



LXVIII. 

So much for nature : — by way of variety, 
Now ba<;k to thy great joys, civilization! 

And the sweet consequence of large society, — 
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 

The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety. 

The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 

The scenes hke Catherine's boudoir at tlireescore, 

With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 

The town vpas enter'd: first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another ; 

The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 

Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother 

With distant shrieks were heard heaven to upbraid ; — 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 

The breath of morn and man, where, foot by foot, 

The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 

LXX. 

Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 

(With some assistance from the frost and snow) 

Napoleon on his bold and bloody track. 

It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 

He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
His jest alike in face of friend or foe. 

Though life, and death, and victory, were at stake — 

But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take: 

LXXI. 

For, having thrown himself into a ditch, 
FoUow'd in haste by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich. 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears; 

But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch — 
('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 

Was much regretted)— for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again: 

LXXII. 

And, had it not been for some stray troops, landing 
They knew not where, — being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
And wander'd up and down as in a dream. 

Until they reach'd, as day-break was expanding. 
That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 

And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, 

After the taking of the " cavaUer," 
Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of "hopes" 

Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
Open'd the gate call'd "KiUa" to the groups 

Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen nmd. 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

LXXIV. 
The Kozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks — 

(I don't much pique myself upon orthography. 
So that 1 da not grossly err in facts, 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 
Having been used to serve on horses' backs. 

And no great dilettanti in topography 
(•f tt^'-tresses, but fighting where it pleases 
Thpu cti:ei!< to oider, — w^e'-e an cut to pieces. 



LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart. 

And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 
The city, without being further hamper'd ; 

But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd— 
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd, 

Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corne's. 

From whence they sallied on those Christian scorncrs. 

LXXVI. 

Then being taken bj'^ the tail — a taking 
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 

Cossacks were all cut off" as day was breaking, 
And found their lives were let at a short lease-* 

But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 
Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 

O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 

March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki:— 

LXXVII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
Without resista^nce, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 

Which of the armies would have cause to mourn* 

'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. 

Lxxvni. 

Another column also sufFer'd much : 

And here we may remark with the historian, 

You should but give few cartridges to such 

Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on : 

When matters must be carried by the touch 

Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on. 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence. 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 

(Without the General, who had fallen some timo 

Before, being badly seconded just then) 

Was made at length, with those who dared, to climb 

The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 

And, though the Turk's resistance was sublime, 

They took the bastion, which the Sera skier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson and some volunteers. 

Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter, 
A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 

Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. — 
He died, deserving well his country's tears, 

A savage sort of military martyr. 
An English naval officer, who wish'd 
To make him prisoner, was also dish'd. 

LXXXI. 
For all the answer to his proposition 

Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 
On which the rest, without more intej mission. 

Began to lay about with steel and ead, — 
The pious metals most in requisition 

On such occasions : not a single hoad 
Was spared, — three thousand JNxosIems perish'd hero, 
And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 



CANIO PHI. 



DON JUAN. 



64 3 



LXXXII. 

The city 's taken — only part by part — 

And deatli is drunk with gore ; there 's not a street 
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying nature ; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian ofEcer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head, 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel. 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled. 

And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold. 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute — 

(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 

Even with his hfe — for (but they Ue) 'tis said 

To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 

LXXXV. 

However this may be, 't is pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed, 

For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd: 

riie regimental surgeon could not cure 
His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

More than the head of the inveterate foe, 

Which was cut off, and scaice even then let go. 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact — and 'tis the part 

Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
Whene'er he can; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from the restriction 
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 

For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 
-^nd that outrageous appetite for hes 
Which Satan angles with for souls like flies. 

LXXXVII. 
The city's taken, but not render'd! — No! 

There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword : 
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word 
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe : 

In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
Uf the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 
The bay\)nei; pierces and the sabre cleaves, 

And human lives are lavish'd every where. 
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves, 

When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 
A.nd groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 

Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 
But still it falls with vast and awful splinters, 
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 



LXXXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 'tis not 

My cue for any time to be terrific ; 
For chequer'd as it seems our human lot 

With good, and bad, and worse, ahke prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

XC. 

And one good action in the midst of crimes 
Is "quite refreshing" — in the affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, — 

And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest and its consequences, which 

Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

XCI. 

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slaughter'd mer, a yet warm group 

Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 

And shudder ;— while, as beautiful as May, 
A female child of ten years tried to stoop 

And hide her little palpitating breast 

Amidst the bodies luU'd in bloody rest. 

xcn. 

Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child 

With flashing eyes and weapons : match'd with theia. 

The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, — 

The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild : 

And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 

Their natures, or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects to destroy? 

xcni. 

Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, 

Whence her fair hair rose twining with afiright. 
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead : 

When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight. 
I shall not say exactly what he said, 

Because it might not solace "ears polite;" 
But what he did, was to lay on their backs, — 
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 

XCIV. 
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulat* 

And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 

The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing coldei 

As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
Don Juan raised his little captive from 
The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

xcv. 

And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how near 

Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 
For the same blow which laid her mother her* 

Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 
As the last link with all she had held dear ; 

But else unhurt, she open'd hor large eyes, 

And gazed on Juan with a wild surpris«- 



044 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO VIII. 



XCVI. 

Just aL this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 

Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
\n Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 

With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
Jnto his protege; while hers, transfix'd 

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
k pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 

XCVII. 
Up came John Johnson — (i will not say ^^Jack^^ 

For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace 
On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case) — 
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 

Exclaiming: — "Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace 
Your arm, and I '11 bet INJoscow to a dollar, 
That you and I will win Saint George's collar.^ 

XCVIII. 
"The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 

But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 
The old pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly, 'midst the din 
Of our artillery and his own : 't is said 

Our kill'd already piled up to the chin, 
liie round the battery ; but still it batters. 
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 
**Tht* up with me!" — But Juan answer'd, "Look 

Upon this child — I saved her — must not leave 
Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 

Of safety, where she less may shriek and grieve. 

And I am with you." — W^hereon Johnson took 

A glance around — and shrugg'd — and twitch'd his 

sleeve 

And black silk neckcloth — and repUed, " You 're right ; 

Poor thing! what's to be done? I'm puzzled quite." 

C. 
Said Juan — " Whatsoever is to be 

Done, I '11 not quit her till she seems secure 
Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
Quoth Johnson — " Neither will I quite insure ; 
But at the least you may die gloriously." 

Juan replied — " At least I will endure 
Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 
I'his child, who 's parentless, and therefore mine." 

CI. 
Jolmson said — "Juan, we've no time to lose; 

The child 's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity: 
Hark ! how the roar increases ! — no excuse 

Wdl ser\e when there is plunder in a city; — 
I sjiould be loth to march without you, but, 
By God ! we '11 be too late for the first cut." 

CII. 
But juan was immoveable ; until 

Jonnson, who really loved him in his way, 
Fick'd out amongst his followers with some skill 

^nch as he thought the least given up to prey: 
And swearing if the infant came to ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day, 
IJu^ if she \Aere deuvar'ti safe ard sound, 
Tli'!" sliituld at least have fifty roubles round, 



cm. 

And all allowances besides of plunder 
In fair proportion with their comrades ; — then 

Juan consented to march on through thunder. 
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men. 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder. 
For they were heated by the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens every where each day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 

CIV. 

And such is victory, and such is man ! 

At least nine-tenths of what we call so ; — God 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject : a brave Tartar Khan, — 

Or '■'• sultan^'' as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 

CV. 

But, flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy. 
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 

Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy) 
He never would believe the city won. 

While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 

Neither, — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 

Who fought with his five children in the van. 

CVI. 

To take him was the point. The truly brave, 
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, 

Are touch'd with a desire to shield or save; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave. 
Now moved with pity : even as sometimes nods 

The rugged tree unto the summer wind. 

Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

CVII. 

But he would not be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bende~ 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied: 

W^hereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
As being a vu-tue, hke terrestrial patience. 
Apt to w^ear out on trifling provocations. 

CVIII. 
And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 

Expended all their eastern phraseology 
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 

So much less fight as might form an apology 
For them in saving such a desperate foe — 

He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
When they dispute with sceptics ; and with curses 
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

CIX. 
Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 

Juan and Johnson, whereupon they fell — 
The first with sighs, the second with an oath — 

Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell. 
And all around were grown exceeding wrotn 

At such a pertinacious infidel. 
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 
Which they resisted hke a sandy plain. 



i 



vANTO vni. 



DON JUAN. 



646 



(X. 

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd: — 
His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 

His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 

The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd, 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 

Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, 

To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 

CXI. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 

Who only saw the black-ej'ed girls in green, 
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 

On earth, in Paradise ; and, when once seen, 
Those Houris, like all other pretty creatures, 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 

CXII. 

And wliat they pleased to do with the young Khan 
In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 

But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 

And that 's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 

For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 

You 'U find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

CXIII. 

Your Houris also have a natural pleasure 
In lopping off your lately married men 

Before the bridal hours have danced their measure. 
And the sad second moon grows dim again, 

Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure 
To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 

And thus your Houri (it may be) disputes 

Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

Thus the young Khan, with Houris in his sight, 
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides j 

But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
In short, howe'er our better faith derides. 

These black- eyed virgins make the Moslems fight. 
As though there were one heaven and none besides, — 

Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes. 

That when the very lance was in his heart, 
He shouted, "Allah!" and saw Paradise 

With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 
■\nd bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart, — 
vVith prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 
fn one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died : 

CXVI. 
But, with a heavenly rapture on his face, 

The good oia Khan — who long had ceased to see 
Houris, or aught except his florid race, 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 
When he beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, 
Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 
A. glance on that slain son, his first and last. 
3H 



CXVII. 

The soldiers, who beheld him dr(ip his point. 

Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 
Quarter, in case he bade them not "aroint!" 

As he before had done. He did not heed 
Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 

And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, 
As he l&ok'd down upon his children gone. 
And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 

CXVIII. 

But 'twas a transient tremor: — with a spring 
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung. 

As carelessly as hurls the moth her wii.g 

Against the light wherein she dies : he clucg 

Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young , 

And, throwing back a dim look on his sons. 

In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 

CXIX. 

'T is strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 
Spared neither sex nor age in their career 

Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through. 
And lay before them with his children near, 

Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew. 
Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 

Flow'd from their blood-shot eyes, all red with strife, 

They honour'd such determined scorn of life. 

CXX. 

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post: 

Some twenty times he made the Russ retire. 
And baffled the assaults of all their host ; 

At length he condescended to inquire 
If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 

And, being told the latter, sent a Bey 

To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid!, 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 

Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet, looking 

With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 
His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 

His beard, he pufF'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 

As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

CXXII. 

The town was taken — whether he might yield 

Himself or bastion, little matter'd now ; 
His stubborn valour was no future shield. 

Ismail 's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 

But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water. 
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 

C XXIII. 
All that the mind v/ould shrink fi-om of excesses. , 

All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses , 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
All that defies the worst which pen expresses : 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse,- 
Was here (as heretofore and since^ ''jt .oose. 



046 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO VIU 



CXXIV. 

rf here and then some transient trait of pity, 
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through 

Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
Child, or an aged helpless man or two — 

What's this in one annihilated city, 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow ? 

Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris ! 

Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxv. 

Think how the joys of reading a gazette 

Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: 
Or, if these do not move you, don't forget 

Such doom may be your own in after times. 
Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt, 

Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 
Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 
Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 

CXXVI. 
But still there is unto a patriot natioti, 

Which loves so well its country and its king, 
A subject of subliniest exultation — 

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 
Howe'er the mighty locust. Desolation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling. 
Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throne — 
Tho' Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. 

C XXVII. 
But let me put an end unto my theme : 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 

And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 

Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 
Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all ! 

CXXVIII. 
In one thing ne'ertheless 'tis fit to praise 

The Russian army upon this occasion, 
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, 

And therefore worthy of commemoration : 
The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase — 

Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual. 
Had made them chaste ; — they ravish'd very little. 

CXXIX. 
Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 

Might here and there occur some violation 
fn the other line ; — but not to such excess 

As when the French, that dissipated nation, 
Pake tov/ns by storm : no causes can I guess, 

Except cold weather and commiseration : 
Rut all the ladies, save some twenty score, 
Were almost as much virgins as before. 

cxxx. 

Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark. 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 

Indeed tne c?moke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides such things from 
haste 

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
Ol hsht to save the venerably chaste : — 

But SIX lid damsels, each of seventy years, 

Wore a^! deflower'd by different grenadiers. 



CXXXI. 

But on the whole their continence was great ; 

So that some disappointment there ensued 
To those who had felt the inconvenient state 

Of " single blessedness," and thought it good 
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding. 
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 

C XXXII. 

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 
Were also heard to wonder in the din 

(Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 
"Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!" 

But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
There was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 

But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 

In darkness — I can only hope they did. 

C XXXIII. 

Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
For Timor or for Zinghis in his trade. 

While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, hke thatch 
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay' J, 

With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch ; 
And here exactly follows what he said : — 

"Glory to God and to the Empress!" {Powers 

Eternal! such names mingled!) "Ismail's ours!'" 

CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the m.ost tremendous words. 
Since "Men^, Mene, Tekel," and "Upharsin," 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me! I'm but httle of a parson: 

What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no farce on 

The fate of nations ; — but this Russ, so witty, 

Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 

CXXXV. 

He wrote this polar m.elody, and see it. 

Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 
Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 

For I wil. teach, if possible, the stones 
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 

Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 
But ye — our children's children ! think how we 
Show'd what things were before the world was free < 

C XXXVI. 
That hour is not for us, but 't is for you ; 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 
You hardly will believe such things were true 

As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em ; 
But may their very memory perish too ! — 

Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em. 
More than you scorn the savages of yore. 
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. 

CXXXVII. 
And when you hear historians talk of thrones. 

And those that sate upon them, let it be 
As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones, 

And wonder what old world such things could see 
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 

The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
Guessing at what shall happily be hid 
As the real purpose of a pyramid. 



CANTO lA. 



DON JUAN. 



Q^l 



CXXXVIII. 

Reader. I have kept my word, — at least so far 
As the first canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
All very accurate, you must allow, 

And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar ; 
For I have drawn much less with a long bow 

Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 

But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 

CXXXIX. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all: 
But now I choose to break off in the middle. 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall. 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch, 
For v/hich all Petersburgh is on the watch. 

CXL. 

This special honour was conferr'd, because 

He had behaved with courage and humanity ; — 

Which last rnen like, when they have time to pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little captive gain'd him some applause. 
For saving her amidst the wild insanity 

Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her 

Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless : all 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Hid perish'd in the field or by the wall : 

Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's call 

1 o prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 

. id made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 



CANTO IX 



Oh, Wellington! (or "Vilainton'' — ^for fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; 

France could not even conquer your great name, 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will l?.ugh the same) — 
i'ou have obtain'd great pensions and much praise ; 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay. 

Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay !" ' 

n. 

I don't think that you used K — n — rd quite well 
In Marinet's affair — in fact 't was shabby. 

And, like some other things, won't do to tell 
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 

Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell. 

Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby ; 

But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 

Vl fact your grace is still but a young hero. 



III. 

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so mucft 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: 

You have repair'd legitimacy's crutch — 
A prop not quite so certain as before : 

The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; 

And Waterloo has made the world your debtor— 

(I wish your bards would sing it rather better). 

IV. 

You are "the best of cut-throats:" — do not start; 

The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied: 
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art. 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part. 

The world, not the world's masters, will decide, 
And I shall be dehghted to learn who, 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo? 

V. 

I am no flatterer — you 've supp'd full of flattery : 
They say you like it too — 'tis no great wonder ' 

He whose whole life has been assault and battery 
At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 

And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
May like bemg praised for every lucky blunder : 

Call'd "Saviour of the Nations" — not yet saved, 

And "Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved. 

VI. 

I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 

Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
And send the sentinel before your gate,^ 

A slice or two from your luxurious meals ; 
He fought, but has not fed so well of late, 

Some hunger too they say the people feels: 
There is no doubt that you deserve your ration- 
But pray give back a little to the nation. 

VII. 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, my Lord Duke! is far above reflection. 

The high Roman fashion too of Cmcinnatus 
With modern history has but small connexion: 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 

You need mt lake them under your direction: 

And half a million for your Sabine farm 

Is rather dear ! — I 'm sure I mean no harm. 

VIII. 

Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses , 

Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 

George Washington had thanks and nought besido, 
Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is' 

To free his country : Pitt too had his pride, 
And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 
RenownM for ruining Great Britain, gratis, 

IX. 
Never had mortal man such opportunity, 

Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity 

Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore , 
And now — what Is your fame ? Shall the muse tune it ye 7 

Novvf— that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'fv ■> 
Go, hear . in your famish'd country's cries ! 
Behold the world! and curse your victories' 



648 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO IX 



X. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 

To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 
Truths that you will not read in the gazettes, 

But which, 'tis time to teach the hireling tribe 
Who fatten on their country's gore and debts. 

Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 
Vou did great things ; but, not being great in mind. 

Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 

XI. 

Death laughs— Go ponder o'er the skeleton 

With which men image out the unknown thing 

That hides the past world, hke to a set sun 

Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring : 

Death laughs at all you weep for ; — look upon 
This hourly dread of all whose threaten'd sling 

Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath ! 

Mark! how its hpless mouth grins without breath! 

XII. 

Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd ; the antic long hath ceaged to hear. 
But still he smiles; and whether near or far, 

He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin. 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones wiU grin. 

XIII. 

And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment. 
But still it is so; and with such example 

Why should not Life be equally content. 
With his superior, in a smile to trample 

Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 

Than the eternal deluge, which devours 

Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like ours? 

XIV. 

*' To be, or not to be ! that is the question," 

Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 

I am neither Alexander nor Hephsestion, 

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion, 
Thau Bonaparte's cancer: — could I dash on 

Through fifty victories to shame or fame. 

Without a stomach — what were a good name? 

XV. 
•'Oh, dura ilia messorum!" — "Oh, 

Ye rigid guts of reapers !" — I translate 
'/or the great benefit of those who know 

What indigestion is — that inward fate 
^Vbich makes all Styx through one small liver flow. 

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 
Let this one tou for bread — that rack for rent, — 
. le who sleeps best may be the most content. 

XVI. 
*^To oe, or hdI to be!" — Ere I decide, 

I should be glad to know that which is being. 
Tis true we speculate both far and wide. 

And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: 
Foi my part, I'll enlist on neither side. 

Until I see both sides for once agreeing, 
bor me, I sometimes think that life is death, 
Kathct ihan life <i mere affair of breath. 



XVII. 

" Que sais-je ?" v.-as the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians : 
That all is dubious which man may attain, 

Was one of their most favourite positions. 
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain 

As any of mortality's conditions: 
So little do we know what we 're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XVIII. 
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 

Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation ; 
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 

Your wise men don't know much of navigation , 
And swimming long in the abyss of thought 

Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station 
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers 
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 

XIX. 
" But heaven," as Cassio says, " is above all. — 

No more of this then, — let us pray!" We have 
Souis to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall. 

Which tumbled all mankind into the grave. 
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's faU 

Is special providence," though how it gave 
Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd 
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 
Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? 

Oh, thou too mortal man! what is philanthropy? 
Oh, world, which was and is ! what is cosmogony ? 

Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
And yet I know no more than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean : — Lykan 
thropy 
I comprehend ; for, without transformation. 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI. 
But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 

Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 
Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 

And (though I could not now and then forbear 
Following the bent of body or of mind) 

Have always had a tendency to spare, — 
Why do they call me misanthrope? Because 
Tluey hate me, not I them : — And here we '11 pause. 

XXII. 
'Tis time we should proceed with our good poem. 

For I maintain that it is really good. 
Not only in the body, but the proem. 

However little both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by tl;e truth will show 'em 

Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours) — 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors. 

Who still have shown themselves more brave (has 
witty ; 
I know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity. 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
Not a barbarian, but much worse than thau 



CANTx. IX. 



DON JUAN. 



64! 



XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 

With thought ; — and of thought's foes by far most rude, 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 

I know not who may conquer : if I could 

Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

It is not that I adulate the people: 
Without 7726 there are demagogues enough, 

And infidels to pull down every steeple, 

And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 

Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell. 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know ; — I wish men to be free 

As much from mobs as kings — from you as me. 

XXVI. 

The consequence is, being of no party, 
I shall offend all parties : — never mind ! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has nought to gain can have small art : he 
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

That''s an appropriate simAe^ that jackal; 

I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 
By night, as do that mercenary pack all. 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 

However the poor jackals are less foul 
(As being the brave Uons' keen providers) 
Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm ! 't will brush their web away, 

And without that, their poison and their claws 
Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I say — 

(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause I 
The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases, till you shall make common cause : 
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 
As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 
Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 

Was left upon his way with the despatch, 
Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water ; 

And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 

Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the match 
between these nations as a main of cocks, 
V^herein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 
And there in a kihitha here roU'd on 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs. 
Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), 

Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 
And orders, and on all that he had done — 

And wishing that post-horses had the wings 
Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 
3 H 2 87 



XXXI. 

At every jolt — and there were many — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his httle charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill, 
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

xxxn. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of what we used to caL 

" Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out quite, 
Since lately there have been no rents at all, 

And "gentlemen" are in a piteous plight, 

And "farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fill. . 

She fell with Bonaparte : — What strange thoughts 

Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy 

Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 

With gore, Uke Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy, 

Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild. 

And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner ! 

Because he could no more digest his dinner : — ^ 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye ! or we ! or she ! or he ! reflect, 
That one hfe saved, especially if young 

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 
Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 

From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
With all the praises ever said or sung : 

Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 

Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous ! 

Yet twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us : 

Whether you 're paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the "courtier's kibes" 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation :— 

XXXVI. 
Oh, ye great authors! — " A-propos de bottes" — 

I have forgotten what I meant to say, 
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots . 

'Twas something calculated to allay 
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 

Certes it would have been but thrown awaj, 
And that 's one comfort for my lost advice. 
Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. 
But let it go; — it will one day be found 

With other relics of " a former world," 
When this world shall be former, underground^ 

Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'u. 
Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or d.--o\\n'(l. 

Like all the world's before, which have been huri'd 
First out of and then back again to chaos, 
The superstratum whi.ji will overlay us. 



f.50 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO IX. 



xxxvm. 

So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 

Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt : 
Like t.3 the notions we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up ! 

How the new worldlings of the then new east 
Wil\ wonder where such animals could sup ! 

(For they themselves will be but of the least : 
E\en worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 

And every new creation hath decreased 
In size, from overworking the material — 
Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial). — 

XL. I 

How will — to these young people, just thrust out 
From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow. 

Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
Especially of war and taxing, — how, 

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum ! 

XLL 

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
" The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 

I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 
And deviate into matters rather dry. 

I ne'er decide v^hat I shall say, and this I call 
INIuch too poetical: men sho\ild know why 

They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 

I never ki.ow the word which will come next. 

XLIL 

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 

Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate: 
I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 

Now we '11 get o'er the ground at a great rate. 
I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we 've so many tours of late : 
Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 
That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 

XLIIL 
Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 

Of yellow kerseymere we may presume, 
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk : 

XLIV. 

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, 

Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — 
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 

BeaTity springs forth, and nature's self turns paler, 
Seeincr how art can make her work more grand, 

(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailor)— 
he/'.oifl him olacet' as if upon a pillar! He 
JS«»*'m» Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery? 



XLV. 

His bandage si.np'd down into a cravat; 

His wings subdued to epaulets ; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small-sword, but sharp as ever; 
His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 

But still so like, that Psyche were more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
If she had not mistaken hitn for Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 

The empress smiled ; the reigning favourite frown' d— 

I quite forget which of them was in hand 

Just then, as they are rather numerous found, 

Who took by turns that difficult command, 
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim. 
Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 

There was a something in his turn of limb, 

And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 

That though he look'd one of the seraphim, 
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi : * 

XLVIII. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 

Or Scherbatoff, or any other off". 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
Of him who, in the language of his station. 
Then held that "high official situation." 

XLIX. 

Oh, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 

The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess ' show 

His parts of speech ; and in the strange displays 
Of that odd string of vvords all in a row. 

Which none divine, and every one obeys. 
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning. 
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

L. 
I think I can explain myself without 

That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 
That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt. 

Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 

Of blood and water, leaden Castlcreagh! 
And here I must an anecdote relate, 
But luckily of no great length or weight. 

LI. 
An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 

What were the actual and official duties 
Of the strange thing some women set a value on, 

Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 
Call'd " Cavalier Servente?"— a Pygmalion 

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 'tis) 
Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, 
Said — "Lady, I beseech you to suppose ihem.^^ 



CANTO IX, 



DON JUAN. 



65 



LII. 

And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
And niildest, matron-like interpretation 

Of the ■mperial favourite's condition. 

'Twas a high place, the highest in the nation 

In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station, 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 

If ratner broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

LIII. 

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 

The usual hirsute seasons, which destroy. 
With beards and whiskers and the like, the fond 

Parisian aspect which upset old Troy 
And founded Doctor's Commons: — I have conn'd 

The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd, 

Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 

LIV. 

And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, 
Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much. 

Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear, 

And yet but made a middling grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh, thou " teterrima causa" of all "belli!" — 
Thou gate of life and death ! — thou nondescript ! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd 

In thy perennial fountain ! — how man fell, I 

Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stripp'd 

Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 

Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 

LVI. 

Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 

Maintain thou art the best: for, after all. 
From thee we come, to thee we go ; and why, 

To get at thee, not batter down a wall. 
Or waste a world ? Since no one can deny 

Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 
With, or without thee, all things at a stand 
Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land ! 

LVII. 
Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 
You please (it causes all the things which be. 

So you may take your choice of this or that) — 
Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 
Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 
With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII. 
Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 

Forgetting quite the woman (which composed 
At least three parts of this great whole), she tore 

The letter open with an air vvhich posed 
The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 

Until a royal smile at length disclosed 
Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 
Her face was noble, her eyes fine, m.outh gracious. 



LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys ; the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East-Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quenchM a moment her ambition's thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 

Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands ! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Russian couplet, rather dull. 

The whole gazette ot thousands whom he slew. 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things called sovereigns think it bes; 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI. 

The two first feelings ran their course complete. 
And lighted first her eye and then her mouth : 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet. 
Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth : — 

But when on the lieutenant, at her feet. 
Her majesty — who liked to gaze on youth 

Almost as much as on a new despatch — 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Thvough somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent. 
When wroth ; while pleased, she was as fine a figure 

As those who like things losy, ripe, und succulent. 
Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. 

She could repay each amatory look you lent 
With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour 

To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 

At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII. 

With her the latter, though at times convenient, 
Was not so necessary : for they tell 

That she was handsome, and, tho' fierce, look'd lenienL 
And always used her favourites too well. 

If once bej'ond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 
Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 

A "man," as Giles says ;^ for, tho' she would widow aH 

Nations, she liked man as a)i individual, 

LXIV. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a strange* 

Is woman ? What a whirlwind is her head. 
And what a whirlpool full of depth ana danger 

Is al! the rest about her ! whethe<- wed. 
Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 

INIind like the vrind ; whatever she has said 
Or done, is light to what she '11 say or do ; — 
The oldest thing on record, and vet new ! 

LXV. 
Oh, Catherine! (for of all interjections 

To thee both oh I and ah .' belong of right 
In love and war) how odd are the connexions 

Of human thoughts, which jostle in tiieir flitrht • 
Just now yours were cut out in different sections 

First, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite , 
Next, of new knights the fresh and glorious batch 
And thirdly, he who brought you the des-jatch ' 



852 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO U 



LXVI. 

Sliakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ;" 

And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 
While her yovmg herald knelt before her still. 

'Tis very true the hill seem'd rather high 
For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill 

Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and, by God's bless- 
ing. 

With youth and health all kisses are " heaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 

Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up— 
And so they fell in love ;— she Avith his faca, 

His grace, his God-knows- what: for Cupid's cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A qtiintessential laudanum or "black drop," 

Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 

Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 

[n love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 

Lxvin. 

He, on the other hand, if not in love. 

Fell into that no less imperious passion. 
Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 

Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 
Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove," 

('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, tho' a rash one. 
For one especial person out of many. 
Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX. 
Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 
We don't much care with whom we may engage, 

As bold as Daniel in the lions' den. 
So that w? car our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then. 
To make a twilight in— just as Sol's heat is 
Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 
And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine) , 

Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 
Whose temporary passion was quite flattering. 

Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 
P»Iade up upon an amatory pattern — 

A royal husband in all save the ring— 
Which being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 
Seen\'d taking out the sting to leave the honey 

LXXI. 
And when you add to this, her womanhood 

In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray— 
(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 

Ot better, as the best examples say : 
Napoleon's, Mary's (Queen of Scotland) should 

Lend to that colour a transcendent ray ; 
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue — 
Too wise to look through optics black or blue) — 

Lxxn. 

!lc-r sweei smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her ]»lumpness, her imperial condescension, 

1 ler preference of a boy to men much bigger 
(Fello%y3 whom Messalina's self would pension), 

Her prime of lifo, just now in juicy vigour, 

With other extras which we need not mention, — 

All these, or any one of these, explain 

Ktiongh to make a stripling very vain. 



LXXIII. 

And that's enough, for lovo. is vanity 

Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
Except where 't is a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity. 

On which the passion's self seems to depend : 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Make love the mainspring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove. 
That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 

'Gainst reason — reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
With rhyme, but always lean'd less to improving 

The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 

To love, there are those things which words name senses ; 

LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies 
Which make all bodies anxious to get out 

Of their own sand-pits to mix with a goddess — 
For such all women are at first, no doubt. 

How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
That fever which precedes the languid rout 

Of our sensations ! What a curious way 

The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with ; the next grand 

Is that wliich may be christen'd love canonical, 
Because the clergy take the thing in hand ; 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicle, 
As flourishing in every Christian land. 

Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyze — our story must 

Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 
Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ;— 

I cannot stjop to alter words once written, 
And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 

That he who names one, both perchance may hit on 
But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 
Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 
The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 

And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 
The elder ladies' wrinkles curi'd much crisper 

As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 
On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smiled as she tallv'd the matter o'er ; but tears 
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
Of all the standing army who stood bv. 

LXXIX. 
All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, who was this very new young man. 
Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 

Which is full soon (though life is but a span). 
Already they beheld the silver showers 

Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can. 
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 
Of several ribbons and some thousand peasants 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAN. 



653 



LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are: 
Love, that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be they near or far ; 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
x\nd was not the best wife, unless we call 

Such Clytemnestra ; though perhaps 't is better 

That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)— 

LXXXL 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune. 
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 

Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, 
If history, the grand liar, ever saith 

The truth ; and though grief her old age might shorten. 
Because she put a favourite to death, 

Her vile ambiguous method of flirtation, 

And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

LXXXIL 

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 

Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratulations. 

Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 

ft is to speculate on handsome faces. 

Especially when such lead to high places. 

Lxxxin. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Nature had written "Gentleman." He said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 

Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
Of those in ofllce : all the world look'd kind, 

(As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind); 

As also did Miss Protosoff then there, 
Named, from her mystic office, "I'Eprouveuse," 
A term inexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXV. 
With her then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have just lit on a "heaven-kissing hill," 
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, 

And all my fancies whirling hke a mill ; 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
To take a quiet ride m some green lane. 



3fO|C ))C 3fC )fC ^ 



CANTO X. 



When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that slight startle from his contemplation — 

'T is said (for I '11 not answer above ground 
For any sage's creed or calculation) — 

A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
In a most natural whirl, call'd "gravitati-nn;" 

And thus is the sole mortal who could grayple, 

Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. 

II. 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be true; for we must deem the mo''^ 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose. 

Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpik' road 

A thing to counterbalance human woes ; 
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 

ni. 

And wherefore this exordium ? — Why, just now 
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 

My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 
And my internal spirit cut a caper : 

And though so much inferior, as I know, 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, 

Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 

I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 
The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 

But at the least I 've shunn'd the common shore, 
And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 

The ocean of eternity : the roar 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim. 

But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 

Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 

V. 

We left our hero Juan in the bloom 

Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; 
And far be it from my Muses to presume 

(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 

It is enough that fortune found him flush 
Of youth and vigour, beauty, and those things 
Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 
But soon they grow again, and leave their ncsi. 

"Oh!" saith the Psalmist, "that I had a dove « 
Pinions, to flee away and be at rest !" 

And who, that recollects young years and loves,- 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 

And palsied fapcy, which no longer rcves 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would mucn -ato** 
, Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfluW ? 



054 



BYRON'S WORKS 



CANTO ^ 



VII. 

Rut sighs uubside, and tears (even widows') shrink 
Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow, 

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 

Whicli threatens inundations deep and yellow! 

Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think 
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 

No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys. 

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

VIII. 

But coughs wi'l come when sighs depart — and now 
And then be fore sighs cease ; for oft the one 

Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 

Of hfe reach ven o'clock: and, while a glow, 
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay. 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die — how happy they! — 

IX. 

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favour of the moon. 

Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
Perhaps ; but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray. 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 

X. 

Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young: 

The former know what 's what ; while new-fledged chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sung 

In rhymes, or drcam'd (for fancy will play tricks), 
In visions of those skies from whence love sprung. 

Some reckon women by their suns or years — 

I rather think the moon should dale the dears. 

XL 

And why? because she's changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste. 

May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair. 
Nor flattering to " their temper or their taste," 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air : 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself; — if not, I must. 

XII. 
Old enemies who have become new friends 

Should so continue — 't is a point of honour ; 
And I know nothing which could make amends 

For a return to hatred : I would shun her 
Like garlic, howsoever she extends 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 
Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 
Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII. 
'J'his were the worst desertion : renegadoes. 

Even shuffling Southey — that incarnate he — 
*Vouiu scarcely join again the "reformadoes,"' 

Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty : 
.^nd honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 

Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
>liou!(l not veer round with every breatVi, nor seize, 
» -) noin, the moment when you cease to please. 



xiy. 

The lawyer and the critic but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life. 
And nought remains unseen, but much untold, 

By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
While common men grow ignorantly old, 

The lawyer's brief is hke the surgeon's knife, 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question. 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

XV. 
A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper. 

And that's the reason he himself 's so dirty; 
The endless soot^ bestows a tint far deeper 

Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 
Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper — 

At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty 
In all their habits : not so you, I own ; 
As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XVI. 
And all our little feuds, at least all mine. 

Dear Jeffi-ey, once my most redoubted foe, 
(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 

To make such puppets of us things below). 
Are over: Here's a health to "Auld Lang Syne!" 

I do not know you, and may never know 
Your face, — but you have acted on the whole 
3Iost nobly, and I own it from my soul. 

XVII. 
And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang Syne !" 

'Tis not address'd to you — the more's the pity 
For me, for I would rather take my wine 

With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. 
But somehow, — it may seem a school- boy's whine. 

And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty. 
But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flies to my head : — 

xvni. 

As "Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland one and all, 

Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
streams. 
The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall,^ 

All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 
Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall. 

Like Banquo's offspring — floating past me seems 
My childhood in this childishness of mine : 
I care not — 'tis a glimpse of "Auld Lang Syne." 

XIX. 
And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 

Which must be own'd was sensitive and surlv, 
Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit — 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early : 
I *■'■ scotch' d, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood, 
And love the land of "mountain and of flood." 

XX. 
Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 

For both are much the same, since what men think 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 

And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare. 
And know no more of what is here than the^e • — 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAN. 



65o 



XXI. 

Don Jnan grew a very polish'd Russian — 
H')w we won't mention, why we need not say : 

Pew youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way ; 

But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
Sniooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour : gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 

The favour of the empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He now was growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 

About this time, as might have been anticipated, 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 

Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 

Of frail humanity — must make us selfish. 

And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 

XXIV. 

This we pass over. We will also pass 
The usual progress of intrigues between 

Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 

But one who is not so youthful as she was 
lu all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 

Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 

And wrinkles (the d d democrats) won't flatter. 

XXV. 

And Death, the sovereigns' sovereign, though the great 

Gracchus of all mortality, who levels 
With his Agrarian laws, the high estate 

Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels. 
To one small grass-grown patch ('.vhich must await 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
Death 's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 
He Hved (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 

Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter. 
In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 

Which (though I hate to say a thmg that 's bitter\ 
Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 

Through all the " purple and fine linen," fitter 
For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 
And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII. 
And this same state we won't describe : we would 

Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 
But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood," 

That horrid equinox, that hateful section 
Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 

Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection 
Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier 
Of age, and, looking hack to youth, give one tear ; — 



XXVIII. 

I won't describe — that is, if I can help 
Description ; and I won't reflect — that is. 

If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp 
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 

Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips : but, as I said, 

I worCt philosophize, and will be read. 

XXIX, 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valour ; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a race-horse ; much to each dress he sportet» 
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, 

As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 

He owed to an old woman and his post. 

XXX. 

He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relations, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 

Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emigrations ; 
And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say. 

That with the addition of a phght pelisse, 

Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a-piece. 

XXXI. 

His mother. Donna Inez, finding too 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few. 

He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,- 

Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 
Those pleasures after which wild youth will hankei 

As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 

XXXII. 

" She also recommended him to God, 

And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 
Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 

In Catholic eyes ; but told him too to smother 
Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad : 

Inform'd him that he had a little brother 
Born in a second wedlock ; and above 
All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 
*' She could not too much give her approbation 

Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 
Whose age, and, what was better still, whose naticri 

And chmate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then) :- 
At home it might have given her some vexation , 

But where thermometers sunk down to ten, 
Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 
Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.'' 

XXXIV. 
Oh for d, forty-farson power '^ to chaunt 

Thy praise, hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 
Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 

Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ' 
Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 

Who, though her spectacles at last grew .hm. 
Drew quiet consolation thro- 'ah V.s hint, 
W^hen she no more could read the oious prmu 



foG 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAXTO X 



XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul ! 

Hut went to heaven in as sincere a way 
As anv body on the elected roll, 

Which portions out upon the judgment day 
ITeaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, 

Such as the conqueror William did repay 
His knights with, lotting others' properties 
Into some sLvty thousand new knights' fees. 

XXXVI. 

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 

;if that my memory doth not greatly err) 
Were their reward for following Billy's banners ; 

And, though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes,^ like tanners, 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce. 

You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVIl. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants — call'd sensitive. 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes. 
Save such as Southey can afford to give. 

Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to Hve 

Before INIay-day : perhaps, despite his duty, 

In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps, — but, sans perhaps, we need to seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek. 
As well as further drain the wither'd form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills in, and, however we may storm, 

They must be paid : though six days smoothly run, 

The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 

The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 
(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 

Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 

Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 
At which the whole court was extremely troubled. 
The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 

XL. 
Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours : 

Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin ; 
f )lhers talk'd learnedly of certain tumours. 

Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, 

Which with the blood too readily will claim kin; 
Others again were ready to maintain, 
'"Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. 
But here is one prescription out of many : 

*' Sodse-sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Mannas optim. 
A \. lervent. F. 3. iss. 3. ij. tinct. Sennae 

Haustus ' (and here the surgeon came andcupp'dhim) 
*'R. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanhas" 

(\Vith more beside, if Juan had not stopp'd 'em). 
'* Bo'us jjot.tssre sulphuret. sumendus, 
Kt. huMstiis ter in die capiendus." 



XLII. 

This is the way physicians mend or end us. 
Secundum artem : bwt although we sneer 

In health — when ill, we call them to attend us. 
Without the least propensity to jeer : 

While that " hiatus maxime deflendus," 

To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 

XLIII. 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 

Quit ; and, though dea'h had threaten'd an ejection, 
His youth and constitution bore him through. 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was delicate: the hue 

Of health but fiicker'd with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 

The climate was too cold, they said, for him. 
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim. 
Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
And drooping like an eagle's with clipp'd pinion, 

She then resolved to send him on a mission. 

But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to push on, 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Tlictis. 
Which Britons deem their "uti jiossidetis." 

XLVI. 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendour, and rewaru 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card, 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, 
Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. 

XLVII. 
But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
Which puzzles us to know what fortune means. 

But to continue : though her years were war ng. 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 

And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLVIII. 
But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 

And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number 
Of candidates requesting to be ])laced, 

Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber"— 
Nut that she meant to fix again in haste, 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But, ahvays choosing with deliberation. 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAN. 



657 



XLIX. 

While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You '11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from Petersburgh ; the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair Czarina's autocratic crest, 

(When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris), 

Was given to her favourite,^ and now bore his. 

L. 

A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine, 
All private favourites of Don Juan ; for 

(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
He had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin — 
Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 

Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 

LL 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 

LII. 

Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile. 
And with that gentle, serious character. 

As rare in living beings as a fossile 

Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, "grand Cuvier !" 

Ill fitted with her ignorance to jostle 
With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err : 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved hini, as 

Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 
I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 

He was not yet quite old enough to prove 
Parental feelings, and the other class, 

Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 
His bosom — for he never had a sister : 
Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 

LIV. 
And still less was it sensual ; for besides 

That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
(Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, 

As acids rouse a dormant alkali), 
Although ('i mil happen as our planet guides) 

His youth was not the chastest that might be. 
There was the purest platonism at bottom 
Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 
/ust new there was no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved. 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride too felt that she was not enslaved. 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation, 

Through his means and the church's, might be paved. 
But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted — 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 
3 1 88 



LVI. 

'T was strange enough she should retain the impression 

Through such a scene of change, and dread, ani- 
slaughter ; 
But, though three bishops told her the transgression, 

She show'd a great dislike to holy water : 
She also had no passion for confession ; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess ; — no matter j 
Whate'er the cause, the church made httle of it- 
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 

LVIL 
In fact, the only Christian she could bear 

Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 
In place of what her home and friends once were. 

He naturally loved what he protected ; 
And thus they form'd a rather curious pair : 

A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender ; 
And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender, 

LVIII. 
They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw 

Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 

Which gave her dukes' the graceless name of "Biron." 
'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, 

Who march'd to Moscow, led by fame, the syren ' 
To lose, by one month's frost, some tv/enty years 
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 
Let not this seem an anti-climax: — "Oh! 

My guard ! my old guard ! " exclaim'd that god of clay- 
Think of the thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 

But, should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 

LX. * 

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 

And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, 
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper. 

Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 

About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 

LXI. 
And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 

Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine: — 
Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike 

All phantasies, not even excepting mine : 
A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 

Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 
Between the present and past worlds, and novei 
Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 
But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 

Which Drachenfels frowns o'er, like a speclrR 
Of the good feudal times for ever gone, 

On which I have not time just now to lecture 
From thence he was drawn onwards to Coloirno. 

A city which presents to the inspector 
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone. 
The greatest number flesh hath ever known," 



658 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO 2 



LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 

Where Juniper expresses its best juice — 

The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
But to deny the mob a cordial which is 

Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel. 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 

LXIV. 

Here he embark'd, and, with a flowing sail. 
Went bounding for the island of the free. 

Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale ; 
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, 

A.nd sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale : 
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be 

By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 

Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border; and Don Juan felt — 

What even yoimg strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of pride that he should be among 

Those haughty shop-keepers, who sterivly dealt 

Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, 

And made the very billows pay them toll. 

LXVI. 

I have no great cause to love that spot of earth. 
Which holds what might have been the noblest nation : 

But, though I owe it httle but my birth, 
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 

For its decaying fame and former worth. 

Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 

Of absence lay one's old resentments level. 

When a man's country's going to the devil. 

« Lxvn. 

Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd ; 
How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
How all the nations deem her their worst foe. 

That worse than worst of foes — the once adored 
F ilse friend, who held out freedom to mankind. 
And now would chain them to the very ra-nd ; — 

LXVHl. 
Would she be proudj o' boast herself the free, 

Wh& IS but first of slaves ? The nations are 
In prison ; but the jailor, what is he ? 

No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 
Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom ? He 's as far 
From the enjoyment of the earth and air 
Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Dru Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties — 
'ITiy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbour, and hotel; 

Tliy custom-house with all its delicate duties ; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 

Tiiy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
T(. those who upon land or water dwell; 

And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, 

rii *' '*r:fi, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 



LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique. 

And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and rredil, 
Who did not Umit much his bills per week, 

Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it-- 
(His maggior duomo, a smart' subtle Greek, 

Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it." 
But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 
Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 

LXXI. 
On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
puddle ; 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
With " schnapps" — sad dogs ! whom " Hundsfot" oi 

"Ferflucter" 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 
Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits. 

Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 
As going at full speed — no matter where its 

Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry. 
And merely for the sake of its own merits : 

For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 
The greater is the pleasure in arriving 
At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXIII. 
They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral; 

Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : 
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader ! all 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone. 
Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias. 
Which form that bitter draught, the h»»man species. 

LXXIV. 
The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 

He breathed a thousand Crcssys, as he saw 
That casque, which never stoop'd, except to Time. 

Even the bold churchman's tomb excited awe, 
Who died in the then great attempt to climb 

O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law. 
Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed. 
And ask'd why such a structure had been raised ; 

LXXV. 
And being told it was " God's house," she said 

He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 
He sufFer'd infidels in his homestead. 

The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 
His holy temples in the lands which bred 

The true believers; — and her infant brow 
Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 
A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

LXXVI. 
On, on! through meadows, managed like a garden, 

A paradise of hops and high production 
For, after years of travel by a bard in 

Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 
A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 

The absence of that more sublime construction 
Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices. 
Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and j^es. 



INTO X, 



DON JUAN. 



659 



LXXVII. 

A d when I think upon a pot of beer 

i3ut I won't weep ! — and so, drive on, postilions ! 
A.4 the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 

Juan admired these highways of free milUons ; 
A country iii all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 
Who "kick against the pricks" just at this juncture, 
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 

LXXVIII. 
What a delightful thing's a turnpike road! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail; — but, onward as we roll, 
"Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll! 

LXXIX. 
Alas! how deeply painful is all payment! 
Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's 
purses. 
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
On that sweet ore, which every body nurses: — 
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it — 
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 

LXXX. 
So said the Florentine: ye monardis, hearken 

To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 
Just as the day began to wane and darken, 

O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn 
Toward the great city: — ye who have a spark in 
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 
According as you take things well or ill — 
Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill! 

LXXXI. 
The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 

A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
Which well beseem'd the " Devil's drawing-room," 

As some have quaUfied that wondrous place. 
But Juan felt, though not approaching home^ 

As one who, though he were not of the race, 
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.® 

LXXXII. 
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping. 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head — and there is London town! 

LXXXIII. 
But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 

Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour 
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 

The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper) ; 
The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 

Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere — 
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 



LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I — as doth a crow 
Before they give their broadside. By and by, 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 

Our old acquaintance, and at least I'll try 

To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
Because they are so, — a male Mrs. Fry, 

With a soft besom will I sweep your ha.l3, 

And brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh, Mrs. Fry! why go to Newgate? Why 

Preach to poor rogues? And wheiefore not begia 

With C — It-n, or with other houses? Try 
Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 

To mend the people's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 

Unless you make their betters better : — Fie ! 

I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore : 
Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses * 

Tell them that youth once gone returns no more; 
That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses : 

Tell them Sir W-ll~m C-rt-s is a bore. 
Too dull even for the dullest of excesses — 

The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 

A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all; — 

LXXXVII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late. 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'Tis not so to be good; and be it stated, 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; 
And tell them but you won't, and I have prated 

Just now enough; but by and by I'll prattle 

Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 



CANTO XT. 



When Bishop Berkeley said " there was no matter ^ 

And proved it — 'twas no matter what he said: 
They say his system 'tis in vain to batter. 

Too subtle for the airiest human head; 
And yet who can beheve it? I would shatter. 

Gladly, all matters down to stone or lead, 
Or adamant, to find the woild a spirit. 
And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 

II. 
What a sublime discovery 'twas, to make ihe 

Universe universal egotism ! 
That all 's ideal — all ourselves ? I '11 stake the 

World (be it what you will) that i/iaf 's no schisns 
Oh, doubt! — if thou be'st doubt, for which some vaKe 
thee, 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spin, i 
Heaven's brandy — though our brain can hiirdlvbeai M 



f)GO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XL 



ITI. 

For, ever and anon comes indigestion 

(Not the most "dainty Ariel"), and perplexes 

Our soarings with another sort of question : 
And that which, after all, my spirit vexes 

Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 

Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 

1 he world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder — 

IV. 

1( it be chance ; or if it be according 
To the old text, still better! lest it should 

Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the wording^ 
As several people think such hazards rude: 

They 're right ; our days are too brief for affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and every body one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least he still. 

V. 

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here nor there: 

If I agree that what is, is — then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely far. 

The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical : 
I don't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 

VI. 

The first attack at once proved the divinity 
(But that I never doubted, nor th« devil) ; 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
The third, the usual origin of evil ; 

The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity 
On so incontrovertible a level. 

That I devoutly wish the three were four, 

On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

Toour theme: — The man who has stood on the Acropolis, 
And look'd down over Attica; or he 

Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 
Or seen Tombuctoo, or hath taken tea 

In small-eyed China's crockery- ware metropolis. 
Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 

May not think much of London's first appearance — 

But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence? 

VIII. 

Don Juan had got oin. on Shooter's Hill — 

Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
Which looks along that vale of good and ill 

Where London streets ferment in full activity; 
While every thing around was calm and still, 

Except tiie creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 
Heard — and that bee-like, bubbUng, busy hum 
Of cities, that boils over with their scum : — 

IX. 
I say. Dor. Juan, wrapt in contemplation; 

Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 
And, lost in wonder of so great a nation, 

Gave Wd.y to 't, since he could not overcome it. 
•* And here," he cried, " is Freedom's chosen station ; 

Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 
Racus, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 
Awai'ft It. eacn new meeting or election. 



X. 

" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
But what they please ; and if that things be dear, 

'Tis only that they love to throw away 

Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. 

Here laws are all inviolate; none lay 

Traps for the traveller, every highway's clear: 

Here " he was interrupted by a knife, 

With " Damn your eyes I your money or V3ur life." 

XI. 

These free-born sounds proceeded from four pads, 
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 

Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads. 
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 

In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 

May find himself, within that isle of riches. 

Exposed to lose his hfe as well as breeches. 

XII. 

Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, "God damn!'' 
And even that he had so rarely heard, 

He sometimes thought 'twas only their "salam," 
Or "God be with you,'' — and 'tis not absurd 

To think so ; for, half English as I am 
(To my misfortune), never can I say 
I heard them wish " God with you," save that way :— 

XIII. 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture. 
And, being soflhewhat choleric and sudden. 

Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 
And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 

Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in. 

Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 

" Oh Jack ! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman !" 

XIV. 

On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 

Came up, all marvelling at such a deed. 
And offering, as usual, late assistance. 

Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
As if his veins would pour out his existence, 

Stood calling out for bandages and hnt. 

And wish'd he'd been less hasty with his flint. 

XV. 

" Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 

To welcome foreigners in this way: now 
I recollect some innkeepers who don't 

Differ, except in robbing with a bow. 
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 

But what is to be done? I can't allow 
The fellow to lie groaning on the road: 
So take bim up ; I '11 help you with the load. 

XVI. 
But, ere they could perform this pious duty. 

The dying man cried, "Hold! I've got my gruel.' 
Oh! for a glass of max.' W'e've miss'd our booty; 

Let me die where I am!" And, as the fuel 
Of life shrunk in his heart, anH /hick and sooty 

The drops fell from his death-'*-ound, and he drew iU 
His breath, he from his swelling throat untied 
A kerchief, crving "Give Sal that!" — and died. 



CANTO XL 



DON JUAN 



601 



XVTI. 

The cravat, stam'd with bloody drops, fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 

Exactly why it was before him thrown, 
Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 

Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled — 

His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case. 
As soon as "crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; — 
Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, a very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a free-born native 
In self-defence: this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man, 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van. 
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle ? 

Who queer a flat ? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle? 

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), 

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?' 

XX. 

But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing, 't is 
Not long before the most of them go home. — 

Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss. 
Through Kennington and all the other " tons," 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; 

XXI. 

rhrough groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 

(Like lucus from no light) ; through prospects named 
Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, 

Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 
Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease. 

With " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 
Through "rows" most modestly call'd "Paradise," 
Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; — 

XXII. 
Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl 

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion ; 
Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 

There mails fast flying off" like a delusion ; 
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 

In windows ; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass — 
/For in those days we had not got to gas): 

XXIII. 
Through this, and much and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 
3i2 



XXIV. 

That 's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
Who vindicates a moment too his stream — ■ 

Though hardly heard through multifarious "dam'mes.** 
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam. 

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 

In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 

Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 

XXV. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better : 
Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it ? — 

But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 
That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 

The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor ; 
The Mansion-house, too (though some peoplecyiiz it^, 

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 

But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights too up to Charing-Cross, 
Pall-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation. 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 

Match'd with the continent's illumination, 

Whose cities night by no means deigns to gloss : 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, 

And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern, 

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the stretts 

Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 
As also bonfires made of country-seats ; 

But the old way is best for the purblind : 
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 

A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind. 
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

xxvin. 

But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 

Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 
And found him not amidst the various progenies 

Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
'T was not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 

Yet undiscover'd treasure. What / can, 
I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 
But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 
Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mail, 

Through crowds and carriages — but waxing thinna 
As thunder'd knockers broke the long-scal'd spell 

Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 
Admitted a small party as night fell, — 

Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinnei, 
Pursued his path, and drove past some hoteh 
St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells." * 

XXX. 
They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front qow 

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and as usual several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er , 

Commodious but immortal, they are found 
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage ; 
But Juan now is stepping from his carrwge- 



^e-s 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO Xi 



XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 
Especially for f-^reigners — and mostly 

For those whom I'avour or whom fortune swells, 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 

Fntil to some conspicuous square they pass, 

And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan, whose was a delicate commission. 
Private, though publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 
The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 

T was merely known that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 

Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said 

(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 

XXXIII. 

Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters. 
And above all, an Englishwoman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves. 

He found himself extremely in the fashion, 

Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 

XXXIV. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary ; but then 't is in the head ; 

Yet, as the consequences are as bright 
As if they acted with the heart instead. 

What after all can signify the site 
Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which they start. 

What matters if the road be head or heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 

To proper placemen, every Russ credential ; 
And was received with all the due grimace. 

By those who govern in the mood potential, 
Who, seeing a handsome stripHng with smooth face, 

Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 
That they as easily might do the youngster. 
As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 
They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 

And by we '11 talk of that ; and if we don't, 
n^ will be because our notion is not high 

Of politicians and thei. double front. 
Who lives by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 

Now what I love in women is, they won't 
Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

A nd, after all, what is a lie ? 'T is but 
The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
A fact without some leaven of a lie. 

The very shadow of true trutli would shut 
Up annals, revelations, ^^oesy, 

And prophecy — except it should be dated 

Some years befoie the incidents related. 



XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 

Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? 
She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her br«»w 

Blushes for those who will not: — but to sigh 
Is idle ; let us, like most others, bow. 

Kiss hands, feet — any part of Majesty, 
After the good example of " Green Erin," 
Whose shamrock now seems rather w^orse for wearihij, 

XXXIX. 
Don Juan was presented, and his dress 

And mien excited general admiration — 
I don't know which was most admired or less : 

One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 
Which Catherine, in a moment of "ivresse" 

(In love cr brandy's fervent fermentation), 
Bestow'd upon him as the public learn'd ; 
And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 
Besides the ministe-s and underlings. 

Who must be courteous to the accredited 
Diplomatists of rather wavering kings. 

Until their royal riddle 's fully read, 
The very clerks — those somewhat dirty springs 

Of office, or the house of office, fed 
By foul corruption into streams — even they 
Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: 

XLI. 
And insolence no doubt is what they are 

Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, 
In the dear offices of peace or war ; 

And should you doubt, pray ask of your next ncigh> 
hour, 
When for a passport, or some other bar 

To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore) 
If he found not this spawn of tax-born riches, 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XLII. 
But Juan was received with much " empressement :" — 

These phrases of refinement I must borrow 
From our next neighbour's land, where, like a chessman 

There is a move set down for joy or sorrow. 
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 

In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough. 
More than on continents — as if the sea 
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 

XLIII. 
And yet the British "dam'me"'s rather Attic: 

Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 
And turn on things which no aristocratic 

Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent* 
This subject quote, as it would be schismatic 

In politesse, and have a sound affronting in't: — 
But "dam'me"'s quite ethereal, though too daring- 
Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 
For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam— 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of much you oomf 

To meet. However, 't is no time to r^ at ' 
On general topics : poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 



':aisto XL 



DON JUAN. 



663 



XLV. 

m the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
ftleaneth the west or worst end of the city. 

And about twice two thousand people bred 
By no means to be very wise or witty, 

But to sit up while others lie in bed, 

And look down on the universe with pity — 

Juan, as an inveterate patrician. 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVI. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
Of import both to virgin and to bride. 

The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 
And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 

'T is also of some moment to the latter : 
A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side. 

Requires decorum, and is apt to double 

The horrid sin — and, what's still worse, the trouble. 

XLA'II. 

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts. 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 
Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts," 

Just at the proper time ; and, though a lad. 
Had seen the world — which is a curious sight. 
And very much unlike what people write. 

XLvni. 

Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 
Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 

For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 
The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 

Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims. 
Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 

Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 

Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish "drapery misses"* 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation. 

Thought such an opportunity as this is. 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation. 

Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit, 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it. 

L. 

'J he Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 

And with the pages of the last review 
Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 

Advanced in all their azure's highest hue; 
They ta'.k'd bad French of Spanish, and upon its 

Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 
And which was softest, Russian orCastihan? 
And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? 

LL 
Juan, who was a little superficial. 

And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 
Examined by this learned and especial 

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: 
His duties warlike, loving, or official, 

His steady application as a dancer. 
Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 
Which now he found was blue instead of green. 



LH. 

However, he rephed at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith. 

And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy. Miss Araminta Smith, 

(Who at sixteen, translated " Hercules 1 urens ' 

Into as furious English), with her best look, 

Set down his sayings in her commonplace book. 

LHI. 
Juan knew several languages — as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublimp : 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish, 
Both longd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

LIV. 

However he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 

At great assemblies or in parties smaH, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 

That being about their average numeral; 
Also the eighty "greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show its. 

LV. 

In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring. 

Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
Although 't is an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king — 

Was reckon'd, a considerable time, 

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint- Jean seems Cam . 

"La Belle Alhance" of dunces down at zero. 
Now that the lion's fall'n, may rise agaiu* 

But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; 

Or to some lonely isle of jailors go. 

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbe* 
Before and after; but now, grown more holy, 

The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 



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GG4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO X» 



LIX. 

Then there's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 
Sets up for being a sort of moral me; 

He'll find it rather difficult some day 
To turn out both, or either, it may be. 

Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; 
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three; 

And that deep-mouth'd Bceotian, " Savage Landor," 

Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats — who was kill'd off by one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelUgible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
Poor fellow ! his was an untoward fate : 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* 

Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 

LXI. 

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will know 

The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders 
His last award, will have the long grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances ; they're too numerous, hke the thirty 

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 

LXII. 

This is the literary lower empire, 

Where the Praetorian bands take up the matter ; — 
A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers samphire," 

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter. 
With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I 'd try conclusions with those janizaries. 
And show them what an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 

I think I know a trick or two, would turn 

Their flanks;— but it is hardly worth my while 

With such small gear to give myself concern: 
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile ; 

My natural temper's really aught but stern, 
And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile; 

And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy. 

And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 

Amongst Uve poets and blue ladies, pass'd 
With some small profit through that field so sterile. 

Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 
l^eft it before he had been treated very ill; 

And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd 
Amongst the higher spirits of the day. 
The sun's true son— no vapour, but a ray. 

LXV. 
His morns he pass'd in business — which, dissected, 

Was like all business, a laborious nothing, 
Ifiat .eaas to lassitude, the most infected 

And (Jentaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 
Ajnd on our sofas makes us he dejectea, 

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
All kinds ot toil, save for our country's good — 
-Vhicn grows no better, thou£;h *.is time it sjpouW 



LXVI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour 

In riding round those vegetable puncheons, 

Call'd "Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flower 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings ; 
But after all, it is the only "bower" 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roa 
Through street and square fast-flashing chariots, hurl'^ 

Like harness'd meteors ! then along the floor 
Chalk'd mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd, 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door. 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly paradise of "or molu." 

LXVIII. 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 
With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz— 

The only dance which teaches girls to think— 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, all o'erflow beyond their brink, 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 

'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
Of the good company, can win a corner, 

A door that's m, or boudoir out of the way. 
Where he may fix himself, like small " Jack Horner, 

And let the Babel round run as it may. 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator. 

Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by; and he 
Who, hke Don Juan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
Of gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to where 

He deems it is his proper place to be; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air. 

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill 

Where science marshals forth her own quadnue. 

LXXI. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 

Upon an heiress, or his neighbour's bride, 
Let him take care that that which he pursues 

Is not at once too palpably descried. 
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste : impaiience is a blundermg guide, 
Amongst a people famous for reflection, 
Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 
But, if you can contrive, get next at supper ; 

Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle : — 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue . 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hooes and fears which shake a single ball. 



CANTO XI. 



DON JUAN. 



6B!) 



Lxxm. 

But these precautionary hints can touch 

Only the common run, who must pursue, 
And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 

Or little overturns ; and not the few 
Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 

Whom a good mien, especially if new, 
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 
Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. 

LXXIV. 
Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 

Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 
Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom 

Before he can escape from so much danger 
As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 

Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 
[ wish they knew the Ufe of a young noble. 

LXXV. 
They are young, but know not youth — it is anticipated; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous ; 
Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 

Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to, a Jew; 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the t}Tant's and the tribune's crew; 
And, having votea, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, 
riiC family vault receives another lord. 

LXXVI. 
•' Where is the world," cries Young, " at eighty? Where 

The world in which a man was bom ?" Alas ! 
Where is the world of eight years past ? ''Twos there — 

I look for it — 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXVII. 
Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 

Where little Castlereagh? The de\'il can tell: 
Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 

Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? 
Where is the unhappy queen, with all her woes ? 

And where the daughter, whom the isles loved well? 
Where are those martyr'd saints, the five per cents? 
And where — oh, where the devil are the rents? 

LXXVIir. 
Where's Brummel? Dish'd. Where's Long Pcle 
Wellesley? Diddled. 

Where 's Whitbread ? Romilly ? Where 's George 
the Third ? 
Where is his will? (That's not so soon unriddled). 

And where is " Fum" the Fourth, our " royal bird?" 
Gone down it seems to Scotland, to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : 
"Caw me, caw thee" — for sk months hath been hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 
Where is Lord This ? And where my Lady That ? 

The Honourable Mistresses and INIisses ? 
Some laid aside Uke an old opera-hat. 

Married, unmarried, and remarried — (this is 
An evolution oft perform'd of late). 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses ? 
Where are the Grenvilles ? Tum'd, as usual. Where 
Mv friends the Whigs ? Exactlv where they were. 
89 



LXXX. 

WTiere are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is— 

Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 

Of fashion — say what streams now fill those channels? 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent. 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXL 

Some who once set their cap at cautious dukes. 
Have taken up at length mth younger brothers ; 

Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hocks ; 

Some maids have been made wives — some mere!/ 
mothers ; 

Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 
In short, the list of alterations bothers. 

There 's little strange in this, but something strange is 

The unusual quickness of these common changes. 

Lxxxn. 

Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 

I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 

The humblest individual under heaven, 

Than might suffice a moderate century through. 

I knew that nought was lasting, but now even 

Change grows too changeable, without being new : 

Nought's permanent among the human race, 

Except the Whigs not getting into place. 

Lxxxin. 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a duke 
(No matter which) turn politician stupider. 

If that can well be, than his wooden look. 
But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter,'' 

And sail for a new theme : I have seen — and shook 
To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 
But don't pretend to settle which was best. 

LXXXIV. 
I have seen the landholders v%-ithout a rap — 

I have seen Johanna Southcote — I have seen 
The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 

I have seen that sad affair of the late queen — 
I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's-can — 

I have seen a Congress doing all that's mean— 
I have seen some nations like o'erlostded asses 
Kick off their burthens — meaning the high classes. 

LXXXV. 
I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 

.Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 
I have seen the funds at war mth house and land — 

I 've seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers— 
I've seen the people ridden o'er like sand 

By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquoie 
Exchanged for '' thin potations " by John Bull— 
I 've seen John half detect himself a fool. 

LXXXVI. 
But "carpe diem," Juan, '• carpe, carpe !" 

To-morrow sees another race xs gay 
And transient, and devour'd by the same I»rp; . 

" Life 's a poor player " — then " piay out the pia» 
Ye villains !" and, above all, ket-p a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you sa> • 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
Not what you seem, but always what vuu se*- 



666 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XII, 



LXXXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befell our hero, in the land 
Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country ? But I hold my hand — 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 

But 'tis as well at once to understand, 
You are not a moral people, and you know it, 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVIII. 

What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, with of course the due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 

Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction. 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 

Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting countess, 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

fie took to regularly peopling earth. 
Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is — 

Or whether he was taken in for damages, 

For being too excursive in his homages — 

XC. 

Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 

For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to sa}' that white is black. 
So much the better !— I may stand alone. 
But would not change my free thoughts for a thn^re 



CANTO XII. 



I. 

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 

Which is most barbarous is the middle age 
Of man ; it is — I really scarce know what ; 

But when we hover between fool and sage. 
And don't know justly what we would be at — 

\ period something like a printed page. 
Black-letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
(ii :,ws grizzled, ana we are not what we were ;— 

II 
loo old for youth — too young, at thirty- five, 

To herd with buys, or hoard with good threescore — 
I wonaer people should be left alive ; 

But, since they are, that epoeh is a bore : 
Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive ; 

And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er ; 
And money, that most pure imagination, 
'4lp.amsi only inr-^u^n the dawn of its creation. 



III. 

Oh gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the cham-cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small 
Ye who but see the saving man at table, 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing. 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring, 

IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker ' 
Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 

But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 
And adding still a little through each cross 

(Which ?«?7Z come over things), beats love or liquor^ 
The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross 

Oh gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper. 

Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. 

V. 

W^ho hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 

O'er Congress, whether royalist or liberal ? 
Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain 

(That make old Europe's journals squeak and gib- 
ber all)? 
Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 

Or pleasure? W'^ho make politics run glibber all? 
The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring? — 
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow, Christian Baring. 

VL 
Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 

Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 
Is not a merely speculative hit, 

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 
Republics also get involved a bit ; 

Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 
On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 
Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VII. 
Why call the miser miserable ? as 

I said before: the frugal life is his. 
Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of prais'" : a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause. 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? 
Because, you '11 say, nought calls for such a trial ; — 
Then there 's more merit in his self-denial. 

VIII. 
fie is your only poet ; — passion, pure 

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displa 's, 
Posse?s''d, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 

Nations athwart the deep : the golden ra]'^ 
Flash up in ingots frcm the mine obscure ; 

On him the diamord pours its brilliant bla? 
While the mild emerald's beam shades down ih «w 
Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 

IX. 
The lands on either side are his : the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 
For him the fragrant produce of each trip; 

Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads 
And the vine blushes likt Aurora's hp ; 

His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 
While he, despising every sensual call, 
Commands — the intellectual lord o' fcll. 



CANTO XII. 



DON JUAN. 



667 



X. 

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
To build a college, or to found a race, 

A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 

Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 

Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
Even with the very ore which makes them base ; 

Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XL 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 
May be the hoarder's principle of action, 

The fool will call such mania a disease : — 

What is his ownj Go -look at each transaction. 

Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
Than the mere plodding thro' each " vulgar fraction ?" 

Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 

Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours — who's wiser? 

XIL 

How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 

(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines. 

But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 
Some likeness which the glittering cirque confines, 

Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp : — 

Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 

XIIL 

** Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," — " for love 
Is heaven, and heaven is love :" — so sings the bard ; 

Which it were rather difficult to prove, 
(A thing with poetry in general hard). 

Perhaps there may be something in " the grove," 
At least it rhymes to "love;" but I'm prepared 

To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 

If "courts" and "camps" be quite so sentimental. 

XIV. 

But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone : 

Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides ; 
Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none ; 

Without cash, Malthus tells you — "take no brides." 
So cash rules love the ruler, on his own 

High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides ; 
And, as for "heaven" being "love," why not say honey 
Is wax ? Heaven is not love, 't is matrimony. 

XV. 
Is not all love prohibited whatever. 

Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, • 
After a sort ; but somehow people never 

With the same thought the two words have help'd out: 
Love may exist with marriage, and should ever. 

And marriage also may exist without. 
But love sans bans is' both a sin and shame, 
.\nd ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 
Now if the "court" and "camp" and "grove" be not 

Recruited all with constant married men. 
Who nevei coveted their neighbour's lot, 

I say that ane 's a lapsus of the pen ; — 
Strange too in my "buon camerado" Scott, 

bo celebrated for his morals, when 
My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 



XVII. 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 
And that 's enough ; succeeded in my youth, 

The only time when much success is needed : 
And my success produced what I in sooth 

Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded — 
Whate'er it was, 't was minei ; I 've paid, in truth, 

Of late, the penalty of such success. 

But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery, — which some persons plead 
In an appeal to the unborn, whom they. 

In the faith of their procreative creed. 
Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 

To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
To lean on for support in any way ; 

Since odds are that posterity will know 

No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Why , I 'm posterity — and so are you ; 

And whom do we remember ? Not a hundred- 
Were every memory written down all true. 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd : 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 

And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd ; 
And Milford, in the nineteenth century, 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.' 

XX. 

Good people all, of every degree. 

Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 

In this twelfth canto 't is my wish to be 
As serious as if I had for inditers 

Malthus and Wilberforce : the last set free 
The negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 

While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, 

And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writea, 

XXI. 

I'm serious — so are all men upon paper: 

And why should I not form my speculation, 
And hold up to the sun my little taper ? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 
On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour ; 

While sages write against all procreation. 
Unless a man can calculate his means 
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 
That 's noble ! that 's romantic ! For my part, 

I think that "philo-genitiveness" is — 
(Now here 's a word quite after my own heart, 

Though there's a shorter a good deal than this 
If that politeness set it not apart ; 

But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss) •• 
I say, methinks that " philo-genitiveness " 
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness 

XXIII. 
And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant placft 
Where every kind of mischief's daily brewing. 

Which can await warm youth in its wild raoft, 
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice m the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land. 
Wliich foreigners can never understand. 



668 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XII 



XXIV. 

What wilh a small diversity of climate, 

Of hot or cok,, mercurial or sedate, 
[ could send forth my mandate like a primate. 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate : 
All countries have their "lions," but in thee 
There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 
But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

"Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
Amongst the paths of being *' taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skaiter glided: 
SVhen tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
Themselves on innocent tantalization. 
And hate all vice e.\.cept its reputation. 

XXVI. 
But these are few, and in the end they make 

Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
That even the purest people may mistake 

Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows ; 
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 

To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflowg 
Quicksilver small-talk, ending (if you note it) 
vVith the kind world's amen — " Who would have 
thought it?" 

XXVII. 
The little Leila, with her orient eyes 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
(Which saw all western things with small surprise, 

To the surprise of people of condition, 
vVho think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition). 
Her charming figure and romantic history. 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII. 
The women much divided — as is usual 

Amongst the sex in Uttle things or great. 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all — 

I have always liked you better than I state, 
Since I 've grown moral : still I must accuse you all 

Of betfig apt to talk at a great rate ; 
And nort' there was a general sensation 
Amongst you, about Leila's education. 

XXIX. 
In one point only were you settled — and 

Vou had reason ; 't was that a young child of grace. 
As beautiful as her own native land, 

And far away, the last bud of her race, 
Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 

Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space. 
Would be much better taught beneath the eye 
t'.f peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 
St. l.fst there was a generous emulation, 

And then there was a general competition 
To undertake the orphan's education. 

As Juan was a person of condition, 
It had been an affront on this occasion 

'J''n talk of a subscription or petition ; 
But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 
Wh-TRo laip belonjrs to " Hallam's Middle Ages," 



XXXI. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 

Begg'd to bring vp the little girl, and " out^^'' — 
For that 's the phrase that settles all things now^ 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough-bred to show: 

And I assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money). 

XXXII. 

How all the needy honourable misters, 

Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy. 

The watchful mothers and the careful sisters, 
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 

At making matches, where " 't is gold that ghsters,' 
Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy, 

Buzz round "the Fortune" with their busy battery, 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 

XXXIII. 

i Each aunt, each cousin hath her speculation ; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
"Tantsene!" Such the virtues of high station, 

Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's " Dover ! * 
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
i Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, but some reject three dozen, 
'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 

And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 
(Friends of the party), who begin accusals 

Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 

To his billets V Why waltz with him ? Why, I pray 

Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXV. 

" Why ? — W^hy ? — Besides, Fred, really was attacVd ; 

'T was not her fortune — he has enough w ithoul : 
The time will come she 'U wsh that she had snatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt: — 
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 

As I '11 tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
And after all poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray, did you see her answer to his letter ?" 

xxx^^. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 

Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 
After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 

Upon the sweep-stakes for substantial wives: 
And when at least the pretty creature gets 

Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives. 
It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 
To find liow very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 
For sometimes they accept some long pursuer. 

Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy widower tum'd of forty 's sure ^ 

(If 'tis not vain examples to recall) 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, 1 
See nought more strange in this than t' otlier lottery 



CANTO XII. 



DON JUAN. 



669 



XXXVIII. 

I, for my part — (one "modern instance" more) 
" True, 't is a pity — pity 't is, 't is true " — 

Was chosen from out an amatory score, 

Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 

But though I also had reform'd before 
Those became one who soon were to be two, 

I '11 not gainsay the generous public's voice — 

That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon me digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast: 
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 

My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places. 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are. 

Not as they ought to be : for I avow. 

That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far 

From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 

XLI. 

But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 

For, like a day-dawn, she was young and pure. 
Or like the old comparison of snows 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 
Like many people every body knows : 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 

(I wish that others would find out the same) : 
And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 

For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 
So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 

To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 
Consulting the " Society for Vice 
Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIII. 
Olden she was — but had been very young: 

Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe • 
Although the world has such an evil tongue 

That — but my chaster ear will not receive 
An echo of a syllable that 's wrong : 

In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve 
As that abominable tittle-tattle. 
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover I've remark'd (and I was once 

A slight observer in a modest way). 
And so may every one except a dunce, 

That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

(>f the sad consequence of going astray, 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe 
V^ hich the mere passionless can never know. 
3K 



XLV. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you. 
Or what's still worse, to put you out of fashion,- 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court you. 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now, whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you '11 find from many a family picture, 
That daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture. 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield show 

Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 

Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 

XLVII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about— 
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 

But now no more the ghost of scandal stalk'd about ; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty. 

And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about ; 
Then she was given to charity and pity. 

And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 

XLVIII. 

High in high circles, gentle in her own. 
She was the mild reprover of the young, 

Whenever — which means every day — they 'd shown 
An awkward inclination to go wrong. 

The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 

Or, at the least, would lengthen out my song :— 

In brief, the little orphan of the east 

Had raised an interest in her which increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan too was a sort of favourite with her, 

Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 
A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 
And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither : 

Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 
At least entirely — for he had seen too many 
Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 

L. 
And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; 

For when they happen at a riper age, 
People are apt to blame the fates, forsooth, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage. 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty. 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weight> 

LI. 
How far it profits is another matter, — 

Our hero gladly saw his Httle charge 
Safe with a lady, whose last grovsn-up daugntcr 

Being long married, and thus set at lart^e. 
Had left all the accomplishments she taught liei 

To be transmitted, like the lord mayor's bare** 
To *he next comer ; or — as it will tell 
More muse-like- -like Cytherea's shiu. 



670 



B IRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XII 



LII. 

I call such tbmgj ..ransmission ; for there is 
A floating bala^co of accomplishment 

Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
According as their minds or backs are bent» 

Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
Of metaphysics ; others are content 

With music ; the most moderate shine as wits, 

While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

LIII. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords. 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
Of " elegant," et cetera, in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 

But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 

Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new. 

That from the first of cantos up to this 

I 've not begun what we have to go through. 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 

LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
About what's call'd success, or not succeeding: 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they 've chosen; 
'T is a " great moral lesson " they are reading. 

I thought, at setting ofl", about two dozen 
Cantos would do; but, at Apollo's pleading. 

If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 

I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 

Yclept the great world ; for it is the least, 
Although the highest: but as swords have hilts 

By which their power of mischief is increased. 
When man in battle or in quarrel tills. 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east. 
Must still obey the high — which is their handle. 
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. 

LVII. 
He had many friends who had many wives, and was 

Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 
Of friendship which you may accept or pass ; 

It does nor good nor harm, being merely meant 
To keep the wheels going of the higher class. 

And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent: 
\nd what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 
F(jf the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIII. 
A Noung unmarried man, with a good name 

And fortune, has an awkward part to play ; 
For good society is but a game, 

*♦ The royal game of goose," as I may say, 
Where every body nai some separate aim. 

An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 
T(jp smgie ladies wishing to be double, 
rh« married ones to save the virgins trouble. 



LIX. 

1 don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits : 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots ; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 

" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes ^ 

For talk six times with the same single lady. 

And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you '11 have a letter from the mother. 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'ci; 

Perhaps you'll have a visit from the brother, 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demanc" 

What "your intentions are?" — One way or other 
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand ; 

And between pity for her case and yours. 

You '11 add to matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 

I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus. 
And some of them high names : I have also ki ^r 

Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
Pretensions which they never dream'd to have sho\ - 

Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, 

Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone. 

And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair. 

In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LXII. 

There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the viti,\ted — 

It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 

"Couleur de rose," who's neither white nor scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such is your old coquette, who can't say " No," 

And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on and off'-ing 
On a lee shore, till it begins to blow — 

Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scofling; 
This works a world of sentimental woe, 

And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 
But yet is merely innocent flirtation. 
Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 
"Ye gods, I grow a talker!" Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it sternest. 
Is when, without regard to " Church or State," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learnest) — 
But m old England when a young bride errs. 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers ; 

LXV. 
For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 

Country, where a young couple of the same ages 
Can't form a friendship but the world o'erawes it. 

Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d — d damages 
A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it ! — 

Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 
Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 
And evidences which regale all readers I 



CANTO Xll. 



DON JUAN. 



671 



LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Ha? saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 

Tlie loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
l:ou may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVIl. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick — no, 't was not the word nick I meant — 
But he had sesn so much good love before, 

That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white chffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. 

LXVIII. 

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for passion. 

And passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 
Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 

Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation ; 

Besides (alas! his taste — forgive and pity!) 

At first he did not think the women pretty. 

LXIX. 

I say at first — for he found out at last^ 
But by degrees, that they were fairer far 

J ban the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
Beneath the influence of the eastern star — 

\. further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
Yet inexperience could not be his bar 

To taste:— the truth is, if men would confess, 

That novelties please less than they impress. 

LXX. 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 

Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 
To that impracticable place, Tombuctoo, 

Where geography finds no one to oblige her 
With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 

For Europe ploughs in Afric like "bos piger:" 
But if I had been at Tombuctoo, there 
No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 

LXXI. 
It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black. 
And the whole matter rests upon my eye-sight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You '11 attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I 'm right ; 

Or if I'm wrong, I'll not be ta'en aback: — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within ; and what see'st thou ? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, 
That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics. 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame : 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics. 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame. 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

1 hose Polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 



LXXIII. 

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes ;-- 

Not that there 's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect for tlieir own wislies. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows ^ 
Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious • 

They warm into a scrape, but keep of course. 

As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But this has nought to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides. 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

I.XXV. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb. 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those bravuras (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 

And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily);- 

LXXVI. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off'-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 

Nor settles all things in one interview, 

(A thing approved as saving time and toil); — 

But though the soil may give you time and trouble, 

Well cultivated, it will render double. 

LXXVII. 

And if in fact she takes to a " grande passion," 

It is a very serious thinj^ indeed ; 
Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
For there 's no saying what they will or may do. 

I^XXVIII. 
The reason 's obvious : if there 's an eclat. 

They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias , 
And when the delicacies of the law 

Have fill'd their papers with their comments variouii 
Society, that china without flaw, 

(The hypocrite!) will banish them like Marius, 
To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt ; 
For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 

A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven:" — but upon this 
I leave the saints to settle their own scoie. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amis«< 
An erring woman finds an open door 

For her return to virtue — as they call 

The lady who should be at home tu all. 



672 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAxXTO xin 



LXXX. 

For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 

People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 

And as for chastity, you '11 never bind it 
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 

But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, 

By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 

Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 

A lady altogether to his mind. 
A little " blase " — 't is not to be wonder'd 

At, that his heart had got a tougher rind: 
And though not vainer from his past success, 
No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXII. 

He also had been busy seeing sights — 
The parliament and all the other houses ; 

Had sate beneath the galleries at nights. 

To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) 

The world to gaze upon those northern lights * 
Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses : 

He had also stood at times behind the throne — 

But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 

LXXXIII. 

He saw, however, at the closing session. 

That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

'T is not mere splendour makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV, 

There too he saw (whate'er he may be now) 

A prince, the prince of princes, at the time 
With fascination in his very bow, 

And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 
Though royalty was written on his brow. 

He had then the grace too, rare in every clime. 
Of being, \vithout alloy of fop or beau, 
A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 
And Juan was received, as hath been said. 

Into the best society: and there 
< iccurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire : 
The talent and good humour he display'd, 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation. 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 
But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why 

Is not to be put hastily together ; 
And as my object is morality 

(Whatever people say), I don't know whether 
i'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry. 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 
*.nd hew out a huge monument or pathos, 
4s Pbiltp's son proposed to do with Athos. ^ 



LXXXVII. 

Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 
Ends. When the body of the book 's beg\m. 

You'll find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 't will be when done • 

The plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige you, reader ! to read on ; 

That's your affair, not mine: a real spirit 

Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear lU 

Lxxxvni. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
Remember, reader ! you have had before 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles 
That e'er were brew'd from elements of gore, 

Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what else 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon "poHtical economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That is your present theme for popularity: 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake. 

It grows an act of patriotic charity. 

To show the people the best way to break. 

My plan (but I, if but for singularity. 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime read all the national debt-sinkers. 

And tell me what you think of your great thinkers 



CANTO xin. 



I. 

I NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time. 

Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious 

A jest at vice by virtue 's call'd a crime, 
And critically held as deleterious : 

Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime. 
Although when long a little apt lo weary us , 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

n. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

'T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-bom, wealthy by her father's will. 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 
I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue : 

I leave them to their taste, no doubt the be?t ; 
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue 

Is no great matter, so 't is in request : 
'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair ; and no inan 
Till thirty, should perceive there '^i a plain woniw 



CANTO XIIJ. 



DON JUAN. 



673 



IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner tnni'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways ; 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 

V. 

I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera^ 

For they have pass'd hfe's equinoctial line ; 
But then they have their claret and madeira 

To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
And county meetings and the Parhament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 

And is there not religion and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the " nation?" 
The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 

The landed and the moneyed speculation ? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm. 

Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

VII. 

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
Right honestly, "he liked an honest hater" — ' 

The only truth- that yet has been confess'd 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest ; — 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator. 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ; 

VIII. 

But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes. 
It is because I cannot well do less. 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I shoul'^. be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes. 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, sho\vn how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 
Of all tales, 't is the saddest — and more sad, 

Because it makes us smile ; his hero 's right, 
And still pursues the right; — to curb the bad, 

His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight. 
His guerdon : 't is his virtue makes him mad ! 

But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 
A sorrier still is the great moral taught 
By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

X. 
Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 

To aid the da.nsel and destroy the caitiff; 
Oppo9(ng singly the united strong, 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless native ; — 
Alas . must noblest views, like an old song, 

B "i for mere fancy's sport a thing creative ? 
A jest, a riddle, fame through thin and thick sought ? 
And Socrates himself but V\''isdom's Quixote ? 
3k 2 90 



XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; 

A single laugh demohsh'd the right arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
That all their glory as a composition 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

xn. 

I'm "at my old Lunes" — digression, and forget 

The Lady AdeUne Amundeville ; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net, 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will), 
And caught them ; what do they not catch, methinks ? 
But I 'm not CEdipus, and life 's a sphinx. 

XIII. 
I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution : " Davus sum !" 
And now I will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum. 
Was the queen bee, the glass of all that's fair; 

Whose charms made all men speak, and wonicL 
dumb. 
The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 
And since that time there has not been a secono. 

XIV. 
Chaste was she to detraction's desperation, 

And wedded unto one she had loved well — 
A man known in the councils of the nation. 

Cool, and quite English, imperturbable. 
Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, 

Proud of himself and her ; the world could tell 
Nought against either, and both seem'd secure — 
She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 
It chanced some diplomatical relations. 

Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 

Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 
By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience. 

And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought. 
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 
And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 

Reserve and pride could make him, and full slo\» 
In judging men — when once his judgment was 

Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe. 
Had all the pertinacity pride has. 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 
And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided. 
Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII. 
His friendships, therefore, and no less aveisio.is. 

Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more 
His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 

And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before 
His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertian* 

Of common likings, which make some de;)lore 
What they should laugh at— the mere ague stil! 
Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 



G74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO Xllt 



xvin. 

*' 'T is no , in mortals to command success ; 

Rut d< you more^ Sempronius — don't deserve it." 
A.nd take my word, you won't have any less : 

Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it ; 
Give gently way, where there 's too great a press ; 

And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,— 
For, like a racer or a boxer training, 
'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining, 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior. 
As most men do, the little or the great ; 

The very lowest find out an inferior. 
At least they think so, to exert their state 

Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 

Which mortals generously would divide. 

By bidding others carry while they ride. 

XX. 

In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal. 
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 

In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
And, as he thought, in country much the same — 

Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, 
At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 

And the Lord Henry was a great debater. 

So that few members kept the House up later. 

XXI. 

These were advantages : and then he thought — 
It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had caught 
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 

He liked to teach that which he had been taught. 
And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir ; 

And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 

Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honour'd him for his docility. 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity. 

Or contradicted but with proud humihty. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility. 
If that the weeds o'er-live not the first crop, — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 

XXIII. 
And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 

Constantinople, and such distant places ; 
Where people always did as they were bid. 

Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 
()t coursers also spake they : Henry rid 

Weil, like most Englishmen, and loved the races : 
And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 
Could oack a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 
And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 

.\nd diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
Kor Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 

As in Fr'-smasonry a higher brother. 
ITnon his t-ient Henry had no doubts. 

His manner snow'd him sprung from a high mother; 
Alio al- men like to show their hospitality 
To X»m whas<» breeding marches with his quality. 



XXV. 

At Blank- Blank Square ; — for we will break no squares 
By naming streets : since men are so censorious. 

And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares. 
Reaping allusions private and inglorious. 

Where none were dreamt of, nnlo love's affairs, 
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious. 

That therefore do I .previously declare. 

Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square^ 

XXVI. 

Also there bin ^ another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous ; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
Which doth not shake some very splendid house 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason— 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares, 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly. 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 

Such are — but I have lost the London chart. 

XXVIII. 

At Henry's mansion then in Blank-Blank Square, 
Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest. 

As many other noble scions were ; 

And some who had but talent for their crest ; 

Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 
Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 

Recommendation, and to be well dress'd 

Will very often supersede the rest. 

XXIX. 

And since "there's safety in a multitude 

Of counsellors," as Solomon has said. 
Or some one for him, in some sage grave mooa .— ' 

Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 

Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 
Which is the only cause that we can guess 
Of Britain's present wealth and happiness ; — 

XXX. 
But as " there 's safety grafted in the number 

Of counsellors " for men, — thus for the ses 
A large acquaintance lets not virtue slumber ; 

Or, should it shake, the choice will more perplex— 
Variety itself will more encumber. 

'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks ; 
And thus with women : howsoe'er it shock some's 
Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXL 
But Adeline had not the least occasion 

For such a shield, which leaves but little mem 
To virtue proper, or good education. 

Her chief resource was in her own high soiril. 
Which judged mankind at their due estimation , 

And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it : 
Secure of admiration, its impression 
Was faint, a-s of an every-day possession. 



CANTO XIII, 



DON JUAN. 



6T5 



XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade ; 

To some she show'd attention of that kind 
Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 

A gentle genial courtesy of mind, 
To those who were, or pass'd for, meritorious, 
Just to console sad Glory for being glorious: 

XXXIII. 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 

Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men 
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, 

The praise of persecution. Gaze again 

On the most favour'd ; and, amidst the blaze 

Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd. 

What can ye recognise? — A gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There also was of course in Adeline 
That calm patrician polish in the address. 

Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
Of any thing which Nature would express ; 

Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
At least his manner suffers not to guess 

That any thing he views can greatly please. 

Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese — 

XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace: his '■'■Nil admirarV 
Was what he call'd the " Art of Happiness ;" 

An art on which the artists greatly vary. 
And have not yet attain'd to much success. 

However, 'tis expedient to be wary: 

Indifference certes don't produce distress; 

And rash enthusiasm in good society 

Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But Adehne was not indifferent: for, 

{Now for a commonplace!) beneath the snow, 

As a volcano holds the lava more 

Within — el cetera. Shall I go on ? — No ! 

I hate to hunt do«Ti a tired metaphor: 
So let the often-used volcano go. 

Poor thing! how frequently, by me and others. 

It hath been stirr'd up, till its smoke quite smothers ! 

XXXVII. 

[ '11 have another figure in a trice : 
What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 

Frozen into a very vinous ice. 
Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 

Yet in the very centre, past aU price, 
About a liquid glassful will remain; 

And this is stronger than the strongest grape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

'Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence; 

And thus the. chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 

And such are many — though I only meant her 
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons. 

On 'vhich the Muse has always sought to enter : — 
And your cold people are beyond all price. 
When once vnu 've broken their confounded ice. 



XXXIX. 

But after all they are a North- West passag» 

Unto the glowing India of the soul; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole, 
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage), 

Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal ; 
For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost, 
(A chance still), 'tis a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; 

While those who 're not beginners, should have sense 
Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon 

With his gray signal-flag ; and the past tense, 
The dreary '■'■fuimus" of all things human, 

Must be dechned, whilst life's thin thread 's spun ou 

Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted: its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind : 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her m. 

XLII. 

The Enghsh winter — ending in July 

To recommence in August — now was done. 

'T is the postilion's paradise : wheels fly ; 

On roads east, south, north, west, there is a ruih 

But for post-horses who finds sympathy? 
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son. 

Always premising that said son at college 

Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. 

XLIII. 

The London winter's ended in July — 
Sometimes a little later. I don't err 

In this : whatever other blunders lie 
Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 

My Mu3e a glass of Weatherology, 
For Parhament is our barometer; 

Let Radicals its other acts attack. 

Its sessions form our only almanac. 

XLIV. 

When its quicksilver 's down at zero, — lo ! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton Palace to Soho, 

And happiest they who horses can engage ; 
The turnpikes glow with dust, and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age : 
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces. 
Sigh, as the post-boys fasten on the traces. 

XLV. 
They and their bills, " Arcadians both," ' are left 

To the Greek kalends of another session. 
Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 

What hope remains ? Of hope the full possessiOJs 
Or generous draft, conceded as a gift. 

At a long date — till they can get a fresh one, 
Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large; — 
Also the solace of an overo,hart:e 



676 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAN2 XIll. 



XLVI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord, 

Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage. 
Away! away! "Fresh horses!" are the word, 

And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage ; 
The obsequious landlord hath 'he change restored; 

The post-boys have no reason to disparage 
Their fee ; but, ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence. 
The ostler pleads for a reminiscence. 

XLVIL 
'T is granted ; and tlie valet mounts the dickey — 

That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 
Also my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

TrJck'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 
Can pamt, " Cosi viaggino i ricchi .'" 

(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then. 
If but to show I've travell'd ; and what's travel, 
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) 

XLVIII. 
The London winter and the country summer 

Were well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a pity, 
When Nature wears the gown that doth become her. 

To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 

Listening debates not very wise or witty, 
Ere patriots their true country can remember ; — 
But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 

XLIX. 
I've done with my tirade. The world A'as gone; 

The twice two thousand for whom earth was made. 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone, — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests or more ; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

L. 
Lord Henry and the Lady Adelme 

Departed, like the rest of their compeers. 
The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 

The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
None than themselves could boast a longer line, 

Where time through heroes and through beauties 
steers ; 
And oaks, as olden as their pedigree, 
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 
A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure : such is modern fame : 
'Tis pity that it takes no further held 

Than an advertisement, or much the same; 
When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 

The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim — 
"Departure, for his country-seat to-day. 
Lord H. Amundeville and Lad" A. 

Lli. 
** We underss^dnd the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends ; 

'Midst whom, we have heard from sources quite 
correct. 

The Duke of D the shooting season spends. 

With many more oy rank and fashion deck'd ; 
Als«» a foreigner of high condition, 
The envoy of the secret Russian mission. 



LIII. 

And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post ^ 
(Whose articles are like the " thirty-nine," 

Which those most swear to who beheve them most)- 
Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 

Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host. 

With those who. Pope says, " greatly daring dine.' 

'Tis odd, but true, — last war, the news abounded 

More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded.— 

LIV. 

As thus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 

Present, lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column : " Date, Falmouth, There has lately been here 

The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame ; 
Whose loss in the late action we regret: 
The vacancies are fiU'd up — see Gazette." 

LV. 

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, 
An old, old monastery once, and now 

Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 

Few specimens yet left us can compare 
Withal: it lies perhaps a little low. 

Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 

To shelter their devotion from the wind. 

LVI. 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd bv high woodlands, where the Druid oak 

Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 
His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke ; 

And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 
The dappled foresters — as day awoke. 

The branching stag swept down with all his herd. 

To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird. 

LVII. 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake. 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 

Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 

With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 

LVIII. 

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade. 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 

Its shriller echoes — hke an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet; and, thus allay'd. 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 

Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blue, 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half aoa-t 
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 

These last had disappear'd — a loss to art : 
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soR, 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart. 
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempesl't ma'Cl., 
In gazing on that venerable arch. 



Lin 



CANTO XIII. 



DON JUAN. 



677 



LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone : 
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell 

The annals of full many a line undone, — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, 

With her son in her bless'd arms, look'd round, 
Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; 

She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild, 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

LXII. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, 
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, 

Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter. 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 

LXIII. 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 

The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 

Is musical — a dying accent driven 
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks attain. 

Some deem it but the distant echo given 
Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 
And harmonized by the old chorall wall : 

LXIV. 
Others, that some original shape or form. 

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 

In Eg)'pt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 
To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower ; 
The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 
The fact: — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 

LXV. 
Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 

Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 
Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 

And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 
The spring rush'd through grim mouths, of granite made, 

And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 
Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 
The mansion's self was vast and vtl"^erable, 

With more of the monastic than hao been | 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, ' 

The cells too and refectory, I ween : 
An exquiske small chapel had been able, 

Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 
And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 



LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join <^ 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 

Might shock a connoisseur : but, when combined, 
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 

•Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 

At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 

We gaze upon a giant for his stature, 

Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

Lxvm. 

Steel barons, molten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls. 

Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation ; 
And Lady Marys, blooming into girls. 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely : 

LXIX. 

Judges, in very formidable ermine. 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite. 
The accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right : 
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight. 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of the "Star Chamber" than of "Habeas Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armour, of the old 

And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold: 
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain'd the stec 1 ; 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood. 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXL 

But, ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 

Fatigued with these hereditary glories. 
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 

Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's :* 
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shono 

In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 
His brush with all the blood of all the samted. 

LXXII. 
Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light. 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite: — 
But lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain. 

Your eyes to revei in a livelier sight: 
Her bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish 
Or Dutch with thirst— What ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

Lxxm. 

Oh, reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know 
'T is not enough to spell, or even to read. 

To constitute a reader ; there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 

firstly, begin with the beginning (though 

That clause is hard), and secondly, proceea ; 

Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinninfj 

In this sort, end at least with the b'^^iinning. 



678 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAN JO XIII 



LXXIV. 
But, reader, thou hast patient been of late. 

While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 

Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
That poets were so from their earliest date, 

By Homer's "Catalogue of Ships" is clear; 
But a mere modern must be moderate — 
I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket: — lynx-like is his aim, 

Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. 

Ah, nut-brown partridges ! ah, brilliant pheasants ! 

And ah, ye poachers! — 'Tis no sport for peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which tlie fair festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song. 

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
The claret light, and the madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 

LXXVII. 

Then, if she hath not that serene decline 

Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 

As if 't would to a second spring resign 
The season, rather than to winter drear, — 

Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 
The sea-coal fires, the earliest of the year ; 

Without doors too she may compete in mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXVIII. 

And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the chase, 
So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,*^ 

Aiid wear the Melton jacket for a space : — 
If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 
T^e noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 

Consisted of— we give the sex the pas — 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabbey; 

The Ladies, Scilly, Busey ; Miss Eclat, 
Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 

And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw: 
Also the Honourable Mrs. Sleep, 
>V"hc» look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep. 

LXXX. 
Witn other countesses of Blank — but rank; 

At once the "lie" and the " eute " of crowds ; 
iVhf pass like water filter'd in a tank, 

AH puigod and pious from their native clouds; 
Or paper turn'd fo money by the Bank: 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The "passee" and the past; for good society 
Is nn «ess famed for tolerance than piety: 



LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station ; 

And so that no explosion cry "aroint 

Thee, witch!" or each Medea has her Jason , 

Or (to the pomt with Horace and with Pulci), 

" Omne tulit punctum, qujE miscuit utile dtdci.^^ 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right. 
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery; 

I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie : 

Also a so-so matron boldly fight 

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 

And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 

Escaping with a few sHght scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I've seen more than I'll say: — but we will see 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Bramins of the ton. 
I've named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 
Who limits all his battles to the bar 

And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly, 
He shows more appetite for words than war. 

There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had new; 
Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star. 

There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free-thinker ; 

And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 

"Ay, every inch a" duke ; ihere were twelve peers 
Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 

And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 
For commoners had ever them mistook. 

There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty d'^ars ! 
All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 
Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXVI. 
There were four Honourable Misters, whos#> 

Honour was more before their names tna/» »ht ; 
There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 

Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to AVaft D«.^ 
Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 

But the Clubs found it rather serious laughter. 
Because — such was his magic power to please,— 
The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees 

LXXXVII. 
There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 

Who loved philosophy and a good dinner ; 
Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 

Sir Henry Silver-cup the great race-winner* 
There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian ; 

Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner j 
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 
Good at all things, but better at ? bet. 



CANTO XIII. 



DON JUAN. 



67r* 



LXXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hards- 
man, 

In his grave office so completely skill'd. 
That when a culprit came for condemnation. 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX. 
Good company 's a chess-board — there are kings. 

Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the world 's 
a game ; 
Save that the puppets pull at their own strings ; 

Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 
My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings. 

Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 
Alighting rarely: were she but a hornet. 
Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 
XC. 

I had forgotten — but must not forget — 
An orator, the latest of the session, 

Who had deliver'd well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 

With this debut, which made a strong impression. 
And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
•'The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

XCI. 
Proud of his " Hear hims !" proud too of his vote, 

And lost virginity of oratory. 
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote). 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
With memory excellent to get by rote. 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, 
" His country's pride," he came down to the country. 

XCII. 
There also were two wits by acclamation, 

Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, 
Both lawyers, and both men of education ; 

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed : 
Longbow was rich in an imagination 

As beautiful and bounding as a steed, • 
But sometimes stumbling over a potatoe, — 
While Strongbow's best things might have come from 
Cato. 

XCIII. 
Strontrbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord ; 

But Longbow wild as an ^Eolian harp, 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word ; 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred. 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 
XCIV. 

II all these seem a heterogeneous^ mass, 
To be assembled at a country-seat. 

Vet thinli a soecimen of every class 
Is belter than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 

The days of comedy are gone, alas ! 

When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's btte. 

Society is smoothed to that excess. 

That manners hardly differ more than dress. 



XCV. 

Our ridicules are kept in the back ground, 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
Professions too are no more to be found 

Professional ; and there is nought to cull 
Of folly's fruit ; for though your fools abound. 

They 're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one polish'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

XCVL 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of truth ; 

And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning. 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 

Further I 'd quote, but Scripture, intervening. 
Forbids. A great impression in my youth 

Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries 

" That scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'" 

XCVII. 

But when we can, we glean in this vile age 
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 

Who, in his commonplace book, had a page 

Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, oh list !"- 

"Alas, poor ghost!" — What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 

XCVIII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
By many windings to their clever clinch ; 

And secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 

But take an ell — and make a great sensation. 
If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 

When some smart talker puts them to the test. 

But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best. 

XCIX. 

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 

The party we have touch'd on were the guests 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner - 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner 

C. 

Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk and honey.' 
Held out unto the hungry Israelites ; 

To this we 've added since the love of money. 
The only sort of pleasure which requites. 

Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 
We tire of mistresses and parasites : 

But oh, ambrosial cash ! ah ! who would lose ^hee 7 

When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ! 

CL 

The gentlemen got "d betimes to shoot. 

Or hunt ; the young because they liked the sporv 

The first thing boys like after play and fruit : 
The middle-aged, to make the day more shf^rl , 

For ennui is a growth of English root. 

Though nameless in our language; we retor. 

The fact for words, and let the French transia'e 

That awful yawn which sleep capnot abate 



680 



BYRONS WORKS. 



CAI\iO XIV. 



CII. 



ITie elderly walk'd through the library, 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 

Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously. 

And made upon the hothouse several strictures. 

Or rode a nag which trotted not too high. 
Or on tne morning papers read their lectures, 

Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 

Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 

cm. 

But none were "gene:" the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion. 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few kno\\Ti. 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

Where, when, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIV. 

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 

Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale ; 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail ; 
And settled bonnets by the newest code ; 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 

To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

CV. 

For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love tlie mystery of a female missal. 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends. 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle. 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

CVI. 

Then there weie billiards ; cards too, but no dice; 

Save in the Cli»bs no man of honour plays ; — 
Boats when 't was water, skaiting when 't was ice. 

And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days : 
And angling too, that solitary vice. 

Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says : 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.* 

CVII. 
With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione; the duet, 
Altuned by voices more or less divine, 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet). 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days. 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

i>is|)lay d some sylph-hke figures in its maze: 
Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 

flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 
Of charms that should or should not be admired ; 

riio hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 

\nd ihcn retreated soberly — at ten. 



CIX. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art. 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart — 

A moment's good thing may have cost thnm years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it, 
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it» 

ex. 

But all was gentle and aristocratic 
In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 

As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic, 

There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old ; 

And our Sophias are not so emphatic. 
But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 

We 've no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, 

Buc gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at an early hour ; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
But in the country, ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true colours soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters. 
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters 



CANTO XIY. 



I. 

If from great Nature's, or our own abyss 
Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-" 
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 

But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast. 
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast. 
After due search, your faith to any question? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. 

Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 

And yet what are your other evidences? 

III. 

For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny. 
Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know yow, 

Except perhaps that you were born to die ? 
And both may after all turn out untrue. 

An age may come, font of eternity. 

When nothing sha-11 be either old or new. 

Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, 

And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 



CANTO XIV. 



DON JUAN. 



68 



IV. 

A sloep without dreams, after a rough day 

Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet 
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! 

The very suicide that pays his debt 
At once without instalments (an old way 

Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, 
Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 

V. 
*Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where: 

And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 

The worst to know it: — when the mountains rear 
Their peaks benea.th your human foot, and there 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute 
Without an awfijl wish to plunge within it. 

VL 
'T is true, you don't — but, pale and struck with terror. 

Retire: but look into your past impression! 
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 

Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession. 
The lurking bias, be it truth or error. 

To the unknown ; a secret prepossession. 
To plunge with all your fears — but where? You know not, 
And that's the reason why you do — or do not. 

VIL 
But what's this to the purpose? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation, 
For which my sole excuse is — 'tis my way. 

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
[ write what's uppermost, without delay ; 

This narrative is not meant for narration, 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis. 
To build up common things with commonplaces. 

VIIL 
You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 

"Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind 
blows ;" 
And such a straw, borne on by human breath. 

Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 

A shadow which the onward soul behind throws : 
And mine's a bubble not blown up for praise. 
But just to play with, as an infant i)lays. 

IX. 
The world is all before me — or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same. 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind; — 

Of passions, too, I 've proved enough to blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind. 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame: 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 

X. 
I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 

The other : that 's to say, the clergy — who 
Upon my head have bid their thunders break 

In pious libels by no means a few. 
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, 

Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 
In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 
And now because I feel it growing dull. 
3L 91 



XI. 



But "why then publish?" — There are no rewardft 

Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary 
I ask in turn^ — why do you play at cards? 

Why drink? Why read? — To make some hour less 
dreary. 
It occupies me to turn back regards 

On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; 
And what I write I cast upon the stream, 
To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 
I think that were I certain of success, 

I hardly could compose another line: 
So long I 've battled either more or less, 

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling 't is not easy to express. 

And yet 'tis not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: 

She gathers a repertory of facts. 
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction. 

But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction ; 

For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts . 
And were her object only what's call'd glory, 
With more ease too, she'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 
Love, war, a tempest — surely there 's variety ; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
A bird's-eye view too of that wild. Society ; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
If you have nought else, here 's at least satiefv 

Both in performance and in preparation ; 
And though these lines should only line por manteaur^ 
Trade will be all the better for these cantos. 

XV. 
The portion of this world "ivhich I at present 

Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 
Is one of which there 's no description recent . 

The reason why, is easy to d^etermine: 
Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 

There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 
A dull and family likeness through all ages. 
Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 
With much to excite, there 's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times , 
A sort of varnish over every fault ; 

A kind of commonplace, even in their crmies ; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature wliich sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
Of character, in those at least who have got any. 

XVII. 
Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 

They break their ranks and gfadly leave the firill , 
But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 

And they must be or seem what they were : stili 
Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 

But when of the first sight you have hat. vom Gli. 
It palls — at least it did so upon me. 
This paradise of pleasure ana '"nn»:;. 



682 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XI r 



XVIII. 

When we have made our love, and gamed our gammg, 
Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something more ; 

With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming ; 
Seen beauties brought to market by the score ; 

Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 
There 's little left but to be bored or bore. 

Witness those ^^ ci-devant jeunes hommes''^ who stem 

The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 

XIX. 

'1 is said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde exactly as they ought to paint. 
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint. 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing; 

And that their books have but one style in common — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now : for writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: 

I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
Especially when young, for that's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 

Of, what they deem themselves most consequential. 

The real portrait of the highest tribe ? 

'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 

XXI. 

*■'- Haud ignara loquor :'''' these are nwg-ffi, '■^ quarum 
Pars parva /«?'," but still art and part. 

N^ow I could much more easily sketch a haram, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 

Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em. 
For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 

" Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit^^'' 

Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 

Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of Freemasons ; 
Which bears the same relation to the real. 

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 
The grand Arcanum 's not for men to see all ; 

My music has some mystic diapasons ; 
And there is much which could not be appreciated 
In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 
Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 

The world (as, since that history, less polite 
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held), 

Has not yet given up the practice quite. 
Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd. 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 
Condemn'd to child-bed, as men, for their sins, 
Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 

XXIV. 
A daily plague which, in the aggregate, 

May average on the whole with parturition. 
lUit as to women, who can penetrate 

The real suiferings of tlieir she condition? 
Man 's very sympathy with their estate 

lias much of selfishness and more suspicion. 
Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, 
l?ui *btm good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 



XXV. 

All this were very well, and can't be better ; 

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows ! 
So many troubles from her birth beset her. 

Such small distinction between friends and foes, 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 

That but ask any woman if she 'd choose 

(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
Female or male ? a school-boy or a queen ? 

XXVI. 
"Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, 

Which even those who obey would fain be thought 
To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 

But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought 
By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 

I for one venerate a petticoat — 
A garment of a mystical sublimity, 
No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XX>^II. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored. 

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil. 

Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ancle? 

XXVIII. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day, 

With a Sirocco, for example, blowing, — 

When even the sea looks dim with all its spraj 
And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing, 

And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 

'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, 

To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 

XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on clhnatc 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs. 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
Because the sun and stars, and aught ihat shines 

Mountains, and all we can be most subUme at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's, is all one. 

XXX. 
And in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be.it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small, 

To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 

XXXI. 
Juan — in this respect at least like saints — 

Was all things unto people of all sorts. 
And lived contentedly, without complaints. 

In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts- - 
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 

And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 
He likewise could be mosi <hings to all women. 
Without *he coxcombry o^" certain s^« men. 



CANTO XIV' 



DON JUAN. 



68. 



XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 

'Tis also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger ; 
But Juan had been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause. 

He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail. 
And never craned,^ and made but few '■'-faux pas^" 

And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 
He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws 

Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 
And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 
But, on the whole, to general admiration 

He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 
Marvell'd at merit of another nation : 

The boors cried "Dang it! who'd have thought 
it?"— Sires, 
The Nestors of the sporting generation. 

Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; 
The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 
And rated him almost a whipper-in. 

XXXV. 
Such were his trophies ; — not of spear and shield, 

But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes; 
Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 
Ind what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
Ask'd, next day, " if men ever hunted twice ?" 

XXXVI. 
He also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase. 
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
A quality agreeable to woman, 

WTien her soft liquid words run on apace, 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner. 

XXXVII. 
But, light and airy, stood on the alert. 

And shone in the best part of dialogue. 
By humouring always what they might assert, 

And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 

And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; 
/n short, thfre never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 
A.nd then he danced : — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
")f pantomime ;— he danced, I say, right well, 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable : 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his d'-U^'d nymphs, but like a gentleman. 



XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, 
And rather held in than put forth his vigour; 

And then he had an ear for music's sound, 
Which might defy a crotchet-critic's rigour. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 

He glanced like a personified bolero ; 

XL. 

Or, hke a flying hour before Aurora, 
In Guido's famous fresco, which alone 

Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 
Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 

The ^'^ tout ensemble'''' of his movements wore a 
Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 

And ne'er to be described ; for, to the do'our 

Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 

XLI. 

No marvel then he was a favourite ; 

A full-gro\vn Cupid, very much admired ; 
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Such was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspireo 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved ^' tracasseriey'" 
Began to treat him with some small " agacerie.''^ 

XLII. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde. 

Desirable, distinguish'd, celeb' ated 
For several winters in the grand, grand monde, 

I 'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated; 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-PIantagenet. 

XLIII. 

This noble personage began to look 

A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
But such small licenses must lovers brook, 

Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 

'T will but precipitate a situation 
Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators, when they count on woman. 

XLIV. 
The circle smiled, then whjsper'd, and then sncer'd; 

The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'il ; 

Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard ; 

Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound ; 
And several pitied with sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 
But, what is odd, none ever named the duke, 

Who, one might think, was something in the affsu 
True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumour'd, took 

But small concern about the when, or where, 
Or what his consort did : if he could brook 

Her gayeties, none had a right to stare • 
Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt. 
Which never nr.^f.t.s znd therefore can't fall om. 



G84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO A IV 



XLVI. 

But, oh that I snouU ever pen so sad a line! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
My Dian of the Ephf sians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to think the duchess' conduct free ; 
Regietting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 

And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 

XLVIL 
There 's nought m this bad world like sympathy : 

'T is so becoming to the soul and face ; 
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh. 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
Without a friend, what were humanity, 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
Consoling us with — " Would you had thought twice ! 
An ! if you had but foUow'd my advice !" 

XLVIII. 
Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one 's quite enough. 

Especially when we are ill at ease ; 
They 're but bad pilots when the weather 's rough, 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off. 

As they will do hke leaves at the first breeze: 
When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another. ^ 

XLIX. 
But this is not my maxim : had it been, 

Some heart-aches had been spared me ; yet I care 
not — 
I would not be a tortoise in his screen 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not: 
'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen 

That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 
'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, 
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 

L. 
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 

Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast. 
Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so," 

Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, 
Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do. 

Own they foresaw that you would fail at last, 
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst '■'■bonos mores,'' 
With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LL 
The Lady Adeline's serene severity 

Was not confined to feeling for her friend. 
Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity. 

Unless her habits should begin to mend ; 
But Juan also shared in her austerity. 

But mlx'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 
riis mexperience moved her gentle ruth, 
And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LIL 
These fortj days' advantage of her years — 

And hers were those wh.ich can face calculation, 
Boldly referring to the lint of peers, 

And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 
liave her a right to have maternal fears 

^or a young gentleman's fit education, 
1 nougp she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, 
furnalf dates, stnues ume all of a heap. 



Lin. 

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty — 
Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue 

Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 

Oh, Time ! why dost not pause ! Thy scythe, so dirty 
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 

Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 

If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

uv. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 

Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best; 
'T was rather her experience made her sage. 

For she had seen the world, and stood its test. 
As I have said in — I forget what page ; 

INIy Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd 
By this time ; — but strike six from seven-and-twenty 
And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 

LV. 
At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 

She put all coronets into commotion ; 
At seventeen too the world was still enchanted 

With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
At eighteen, though belov/ her feet still panted 

A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
She had consented to create again 
That Adam, call'd "the happiest of men." 

LVI. 
Since then she had sparkled through three glowing 
winters, 

Admired, adored ; but also so correct. 
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 

Without the apparel of being circumspect ; 
They could not even glean the slightest splinters 

From off the marble, which had no defect. 
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 
Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her. 

Those little glitterers of the London night ; 
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her — 

She was a pitch beyond a coxcon^b's flight. 
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 

But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 
A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify ? 

LVIII. 
I hate a motive like a lingering bottle. 

Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 

Especially with politics on hand ; 
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle. 

Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sana 
I hate it, as I hate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 

LIX. 
'T is sad to hack into the roots of things, 

They are so much intertwisted with the earth : 
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 

I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
To trace all actions to their secret springs 

Would make indeed some melancholy mirth : 
But this is not at present my concern. 
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.* 



CANTO XIV. 



DON JUAN. 



606 



LX. 

With the kind view of saving an eclat, 
Both to the duchess and diplomatist, * 

The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 
That Juan was unlikely to resist — 

(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas 
In England ranks quite on a ditFerent list 

From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries, 

Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is) — 

LXI. 

The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best impede 
The further progress of this sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake. 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

LXII. 

It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
His grace was an enduring, married man. 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 

Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
The magic of her grace's talisman, 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 

Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante, 
And somewhat michante in her amorous sphere ; 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
A lover with caprices soft and dear, 

That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 
Find one, each day of the delightful year ; 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go : 

LXIV. 

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head. 

Or make a Werter of him in the end. 
No wonder then a purer soul should dread 

This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 
It were much better to be wed or dead. 

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
If that a '•'•bonne fortune'''' be really *•*• honneJ''' 

LXV. 
And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart. 

Which really knew or thought it knew no guile. 
She call'd her husband now and then apart, 

And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile, 
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 

To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 
And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet. 
In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

LXVI. 
Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 

In anybody's business but the king's:" 
Next, that "he never judged from what appear'd, 

Without strong reason, of those sorts of things :" 
Thirdly, that "Juan had more brain than beard, 

And was not to be held in leading-strings ;" 
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 
'That good but rarely came from good advice." 
3l2 



LXVII. 

And, therefore, doubtless, to approve the tiuth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth, 
At least as far as bienseance allows: 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth ; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows , 

That opposition only more atta^'jes 

But here a messenger brought in despatches : 

LXVIII. 

And being of the council call'd " the privy," 

Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet. 
To furnish matter for some future Livy 

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 
And if their full contents I do not give ye, 

It is because I do not know them yet : 
But I shall add them in a brief appendix, 
To come between mine epic and its index. 

LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
Another gentle commonplace or two. 

Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, 
And pass, for want of better, though not new : 

Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, 
And having casually glanced it through. 

Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 

Less Uke a young wife than an aged sistCr. 

LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honourable man. 

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing, 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king ; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birth-days, glorious with a star. and strinj .. 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when I reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the whole- - 

I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell- • 
Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call sou. 

Certes it was not body , he was well 
Proportion'd, as a poplai or a pole, 

A handsome man, that Human miracle ; 
And in each circumstance of love or war, 
Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 
Still there was something wanting, as I 've said— 

That undefinable "^e ne sots quoi,''^ 
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed , 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan bo/ 
Was much inferior to King Menelaus , — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIII. 
There is an awkward thing which much perpicxee. 

Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 
By turns the difference of the several sexes : 

Neither can show quite how they would be lov/yi 
The sensual for a short time but connects _s— 

The sentimental boasts to be unmovod; 
But both together form a kind of centaur 
Upon whose back 'tis better not *o venture. 



cso 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO ?:iv 



LXXIV. 

A sometnlng all-sufficit nt for the heart 
Is that for which the sex are always seeking ; 

But how to fill up th.M same vacant part — 

There Ues the rub — and this they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart, 

They run before the wind through high seas breaking ; 

And when they have made the shore, through every shock, 

'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 

LXXV. 

There is a flower call'd "love in idleness," 

For which see Shakspeare's ever- blooming garden; — 

I will not make his great description less, 

And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 

I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; 

But though the flower is different, with the French 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, " voiUl la pervenche .'" 

LXXVI. 

Eureka! I have found it! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness, 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between ; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
Convey 'd Medea as her supercargo. 

LXXVII. 

^^ Beaius ille proculV^ from '■^ negotiis^''^ 

Saith Horace ; the great little poet 's vsrong ; 

His other maxim, '■^ Noscitur a sociis,'''' 

Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company he kept too long ; 

But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXVIII. 

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing ; 

Eve made up millinery with fig-leav^es — 
The earUest knowledge from the tree so knowing. 

As far as I know, that the church receives: 
And since that time, it need not cost much showing, 

That many of the ills o'er which man grieves. 
And still more women, spring from not employing 
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 
And hence nigh life is oft a dreary void, 

A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 
A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 

Bards may sing what they please about content; 
Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 

And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 
Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 
lleduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 

LXXX. 
1 do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen; 
Nor if unto the world I ever gave it. 

Would some believe that such a tale had been: 
Hut such mtent I never had, nor have it ; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
Rspeoiaily when they would I'-cl.. uaq lies ; 
I therefore deal '"^ ^ciierahties. 



LXXXI. 

An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and wli> ' 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell. 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his ceil : 
And (i propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it diflicult to dwell ; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXIII. 

Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown. 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say. 

Thou hast struck one immense colossus down. 
Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 

But there 's another little thing, I own, 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day 

And set the other half of earth to rights : 

You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the whites, 

Lxxxin. 

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander ; 

Ship off" the holy three to Senegal ; 
Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gander," 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
Shut up each high heroic salamander. 

Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small) 
Shut up — no, not the king, but the pavilion. 
Or else 'twill cost us all another million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large ; let Bedlam out. 
And you will be perhaps surprised to find 

All things pursue exactly the same route, 
As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 

This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 

But till that point d? appui is found, alas I 

Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion j 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct. 

As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd. 

Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a staunch one ; 
But when the latter works its own undoing, 
Its inner crash is hke an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 
She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 

Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil. 
The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 

No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 
Their union was a model to behold. 
Serene and noble, — conjugal bui oold. 

LXXXVII. 
There was no great disparity of years. 

Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd : 
They moved like stars united in their spheres. 

Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd. 
Where mingled and yet separate appears 

The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 
Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 



i 



CANTO XIV. 



Don JUAN. 



68" 



LXXXVIII. 

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best, 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter : 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run, like growing water, 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen. 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy,, both in men and women, 
Whene'er their triumph nales, or star is tamed : — 

And 'twill perplex the casuists in morality, 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

XC. 

Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo, 
It had been firmness ; now 't is pertinacity : 

Must the event decide between the two ? 
I leave it to your people of sagacity 

To draw the line between the false and true, 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity ; 

My business is with Lady Adeline, 

Who in her way too was a heroine. 

XCI. 

She knew not her own heart ; then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan: 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger. 

XCII. 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
Without the farce of friendship, or romance 

Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, 

Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 

To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 

She was as capable as woman can be. 

xcm. 

No doubt the secret influence of the sex 

Will there, as also in the ties of blood. 
An innocent predominance annex. 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 

And your true feelings fully understood, 
No friend like to a Woman earth discovers. 
So that you have not been no? will be lovers. 

XCIV. 
Love bears within its breast the very germ 

Of change; and how should this be otherwise? 
That violent things more quickly find a term 

Is shown through Nature's whole analogies : 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 

Would you have endless lightning in the skies ? 
Methinks love's very title says enough : 
How should " the tender passion" e'er be tough ? 



xcv. 

Alas! by all experience, seldom yet 

(I merely quote what I have heard from many; 

Had lovers not some reason to regret 
The passion which made Solomon a Zany. 

I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 

Who were the very paragons of wives, 

Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 

I've also seen some female ynenc?s ('tis odd. 
But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 

That faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad, 
At home, far more than ever yet was love — 

Who did not quit me when oppression trod 
Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 

Who fought, and fight, in absence too, my battles, 

Despite the snake society's loud rattles. 

XCVII. 

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adehne 
Grew friends in this or any other sense, 

Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 
At present I am glad of a pretence 

To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense; 

The surest way for ladies and for books 

To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 

XCVIII. 

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 
To read Don Quixote in the original, 

A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd " small,' 

Or serious, are the topics I must banish 
To the next canto ; where, perhaps, I shall 

Say something to the purpose, and display 

Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 

Above all, I beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter : 
They '11 only make mistakes about the fair. 

And Juan, too, especially die latter. 
And I shall take a much more serious air 

Than I have yet done in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall ; but if they do, 't will be their rum. 

C. 
But great things spring from little : — would you think, 

That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 

Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion 
As few would ever dream could form the link 

Of such a sentimental situation ? 
You '11 never guess, I '11 bet you miUions, milliard.- — 
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 

CL 
'T is strange — but true ; for truth is always stranpc 

Stranger than fiction : if it could be told. 
How much would novels gain by the exchange ' 

How differently the world would men behola . 
How oft would vice and virtue places change 

The nesv world would be nothing to the o'd 
If some Columbus of the moral seas 
Would show mankind their souls' antipoaeu 



(>B8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XV 



CII. 

What "antres vast and deserts idle" then 
Would be discover'd iii the human soul !_ 

What ice-bergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 

What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 

Were things but only call'd by their right name, 

CtEsar hnnself would be ashamed of fame. 



CANTO XT 



I. 

Ah ! what should follow slips from my reflection : 

Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 

A.S a propos of hope or retrospection, 
As though the lurking thought had foUow'd free. 

All present life is but an interjection. 
An "Oh!" or "Ah!" of joy or misery. 

Of a " Ha ! ha !" or " Bah !"— a yawn, or " Pooh !" 

Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 

II. 

IJut, more or less, the whole 's a synocope, 
Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 

I'he grand antithesis to great ennui, 
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 

That watery outline of eternity. 
Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 

Which ministers unto the soul's delight. 

In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

III. 

But all are better than the sigh supprest, 

Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 
Making the countenance a mask of rest, 

And turning human nature to an art. 
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best ; 

Dissimulation always sets apart 
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 
All ! who can tell ? Or rather, who can not 

Remember, without telling, passion's errors ? 
The drainer of ob.ivion, even the sot, 

Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 
VVha^ though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 

He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors j 
'ITie ruby glass that shakes within his hand, 
T*saveg a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 

V. 
Aid as for love — Oh, Love ! We will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would wish to read. 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
'J'here's music in the sighing of a reed; 

Theie's music in the gushing of a rill; 
There s music in all things, if men had ears : 
rhei: f«rih s hut an echo of tiie snheT>» 



VI. 

The Lady Adeline, right honoural»le. 

And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so ; 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 

In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so ! 

They differ as wine differs from its label, 

When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 

But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 

Till old, may undergo adulteration. 

VII. 

But Adeline was of the purest vintage. 

The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 

Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage. 
Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 

A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
And for which Nature might forego her debt — 

Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 

The luck of finding every body solvent. 

VIII. 

Oh, Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! tnou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap. 

Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap. 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome. 

On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom." 

IX. 

Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty ! 

She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from duty^ 

The more 's the reason v.hy you ought to stay. 
Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for your booty 

You should be civil in a modest way : 
Suppress then some slight feminine diseases. 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 

X. 

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested (as was said), 
Because she was not apt, like some of us, 

To like too readily, or too higli bred 
To show it — points we need not now discuss — 

Would give up artlessly both heart and head 
Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 
For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 
Some parts of Juan's history, which rumour. 

That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure. 
She had heard : but women hear with more good humour 

Such aberrations than we men of rigour. 
Besides his conduct, since in England, grew more 

Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour j 
Because he had, like Alcibiades, 
The art of living in all climes with. ease. 

XII. 
His manner was perhaps the more seductive. 

Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce ; 
Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 

Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 
Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective. 

To indicate a Cupidon broke loose. 
And seem to say, " resist us if you can " — 
Wh>rli makos a dandy while it spoils a mai^. 



€ANTO XV. 



DON JUAN. 



680 



XIII. 

rhey are wrong — that 's not the way to set about it ; 

As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 

In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart hke a sweet voice. 

XIV. 

By nature soft, his whole address held off 
Suspicion : though not timid, his regard 

Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, 

To shield himself, than put you on your guard : 

Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough, 
But modesty's at times its own reward, 

Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 

Will go much further than there 's need to mention. 

XV. 
Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd. 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud. 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs ; — without a struggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. 

XVI. 

That is, with men : with women, he was what 
They pleased to make or take him for ; and their 

Imagination 's quite enough for that : 
So that the outline 's tolerably fair, 

rhey fill the canvas up — and " verbum sat," 
If once their phantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful. 

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. • 

XVII. 

Adelin", no deep judge of character. 

Was apt to add a colouring from her own. 

'T is thus the 'good will amiably err. 

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher. 

But saddest Vv'hen his science is well known : 

And persecuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon? 

Great Socrates ? And thou, diviner still,' 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill ? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 

How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations. 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 
t perch upon an humbler promontory, 

Amidst life's infinite variety : 
With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, 

But speculatmg as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story. 

And never straining hard to versify 
1 rattle on exactly as I 'd talk 
With any body in a ride or walk. 
92 



XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there 's a conversational facility, 
Which may round off an hour upon a time. 

Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary. 

Just as I feel the "improvvisatore." 

XXI. 

" Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die aliquando 
Et 6ene, die neutrum, die aliquando male.^' 

The first is rather more than mortal can do j 
The second may be sadly done or gaily ; 

The third is still more difficult to stand to; 
The fourth we hear, and see, and say tofs daily : 

The whole together is what I could wish 

To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXIL 

A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
And pride my foible : — let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short. 
But now I can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more ; — but I was' born for opposition. 

XXIII. 

But then 't is mostly on the weaker side : 

So that I verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride, 

Were shaken down, and " dogs had had their day,*' 
Though at the first I might by chance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty. 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

I think I should have made monastic vows, 
But for my own pecuUar superstition : 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows. 
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian , 

Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 

If some one had not told me to forego it. 

XXV. 

But "laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing. 

Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight 
Which seems at first to need no lofty wing. 

Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 
The difficulty lies in colouring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight> 
With nature manners which are artificial. 
And rendering general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 
The difference is, that in the days of old 

Men made the manners ; manners now make men 
Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their folo. 

At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 
Now this at all events must render cold 

Your writers, who must either draw again 
Days better drawn before, or else assume 
The present, with their commonplace cosfunif 



GQO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO Ak. 



XXVII. 

We '11 do our best to make the best on 't : — March ! 

March, ny Mus^; ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter ; 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch. 

Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely shall find something worth research : 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage. 
While yet America was in her non-age. 

XXVIII. 

W^hen Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
Felt on the whole an interest intense — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation. 
Or that he had an air of innocence. 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 
As women hate half measures, on the whole. 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 

Like all who give and eke receive it gratis. 

For which small thanks are still the market price. 
Even where the article at highest rate is. 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 
And morally decided, the best state is, 

For morals, marriage ; and, this question carried. 

She seriously advised him to get married. 

XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference. 

He had a predilection for that tie ; 
But that at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his own preference, 

Or that of her to whom he might apply ; 
That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady, 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself, 

And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 
Arranging them like books on the same shelf. 

There 's nothing women lovs to dabble in 
More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 

Than match-making in general : 't is no sin 
(Jertes, but a preventative, and therefore 
That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 
Rut never yet (except of course a miss 

Unwed, or mistress never to be wed. 
Or wed already, who object to this) 

Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
Some drama of the marriage unities, 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 
TJ>ey generally have some only son, 

?Son^e heir to a largo property, some friend 
Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end 
\ I'lfic, and leave posle\ ity undone, 

IJnlfss a marriage was applied to mend 
Tho picspect and their mora"-?: and besides, 
rh(!v have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 



XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select. 

For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 
For one a songstress who hath no defect. 

For t' other one who promises much duty ; 
For this a lady no one can reject. 

Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty ; 
A second for her excellent connexions ; 
A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 
When Rapp the harmonist embargo'd marriage ^ 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 
Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage. 

Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 
Without those sad expenses which disparage 

What Nature naturally most encourages) — 
Why call'd he "Harmony" a state sans wedlock? 
Now here I have got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 
Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 

Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 
But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 

Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly, 
Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 

Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 
My objection's to his title, not his ritual. 
Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 

XXXVII. 
But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons. 
Who favour, nialgre Malthus, generation — 
Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
Of all the modest part of propagation, 
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs. 

That half its produce tends to emigration. 
That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 
Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; 

I wish she had: his book's the eleventh commandment 
Which says, " thou shalt not marry "-r-unless well : 

This he (as far as I can understand) meant : 
'Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell. 

Nor canvass what "so eminent a hand" meant ;' 
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic. 
Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 
But Adeline, who probably presumed 

That Juan had enough of maintenance. 
Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doora'd — 

As on the whole it is an even chance 
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groorn'd^ 

May retrograde a little in the danc-e 
Of marriage — (which might form a painter's fame. 
Like Holbein's " Dance of Death" — but 't is the same): 

XL. 
But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 

In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman. 
But then,with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading, 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss 
Knowman, 
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. 

She deem'd his merits something more than common* 
All these were unobjectionable matches. 
And might go on, if well wound up, like watcties. 



\ 



i,ANTO XV' 



DON JUAN. 



691 



XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea, 

That usual paragon, an only daughter 
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, 
Till skimm'd — and tlien there was some milk and 
water, 
With a slight shade of Blue too it might be, 

Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter ? 
Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XLII. 
And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 

A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
Whose heart was fix'd upon a star of bluestring ; 

But whether English dukes grew rare of late. 
Or that she nad not harp'd upon the true string, 

By which such sirens can attract our great. 
She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other. 

XLIII. 
And then there was — but why should J go on, 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 
Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 

Of the best class, and better than her class, — 
Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glas.s, 
A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 

XLIV. 
Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; 
But still her aspect had an air so lonely! 

Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 
Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 

By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 

XLV. 
Early in years, and yet more infantine 

In figure, she had something of sublime 
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 

All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 
Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 
Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 
She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 
And grieved for those who could return no more. 

XLVI. 
She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere. 

As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear. 

Perhaps because 't was fallen : her sires were proud 
or deeds and days when they had fiU'd the ear 

Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
To novel power ; and as she was the last, 
She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XLVII. 
She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 

As seeking not to know it ; silent, iuiie, 
As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew. 

And kept her heart serene within its zone. 
There was awe in the homage which she drew j 

Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 
A»»art from the surrounding world, and strong j 

In its own strength— most strange in one so young. | To sav what it was not, th9a what it 



XLVIII. 

Now it so happon'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited : 
Her Deauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mention'd as well fitted 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he express'd half smiling and half senous 

When Adeline replied with some disgust. 

And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvell'd "what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?" 

L. 

Juan rejoin'd — "She was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 

Since he was sure his moth»r would fall sick. 
And the Pope thunder excommunication. 

If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, staled — 

As usual — the same reason which she late dil. 

LI. 

And wherefore not ? A reasonable reason, 
If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on 
And amplify ; you lose much by concision , 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route ? 

LII. 

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice. 

With all the added charm of form and feature. 

For me appears a question far too nice, 
Since Adeline was liberal by nature ; 

But nature 's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

Lin. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd. 
Which charm most people in their earlier day: 

For there are few things by mankind less brooli t 
And womankind too, if we so may say. 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked. 
Like "Antony's by Caesar," by the few 
Who look upon them as they ought to do. 

LIV. 
It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her nimd. 
It was not scorn — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest Jault was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I think: but shun 

Following the "ignes fatui" of mankind. 
It was not but 't is easier far, alas ' 



092 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XV 



LV. 

LiUie Aurora deein'd she was the theme 
Of such discussion. She was there a guest, 

A beauteous ripple of the briUiant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 

Which flow'd on for a niomei t in the beam 
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkUng crest. 

Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 

She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 

Tho dashing and proud air of Adeline 

Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 

Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 
Juan was something she could not divine, 

Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor. 
Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 
His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 

Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 
A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 

Half virtues and whole vices being combined j 
Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 

Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blmd : — 
These seals upon her wax made no impression, 
Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

Lvin. 

Juan knew nought of such a character- 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee ; 
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere: 

The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 
More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 

Was nature's all : Aurora could not be 
Nor would be thus ; — the difference in them 
Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 
Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 

Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative. 
And, as my friend Scott says, "I sound my Warison ;" 

Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, 

Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share 
it, if 
There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 
I say, in my slight way I may proceed 

To play upon the surface of humanity. 
I write the world, nor care if the world read, 

At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 

More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 
Thought that it might turn out so — now I know it, 
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 
The conference or congress (for it ended 

Aj6 congresses of late do) of the Lady 
A<*eu.ne and Don Juan rather blended 

Soifie acias with the sweets — for she was heady ; 
But. «?re tne matter couiu oe marr'd or mended. 

The siWery bell rung, not for "dinner ready," 
But for that hour, call'd half-hour^ given to dress, 
Though ladies' robps seem scant enough for less. 



LXH. 

Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks 

For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer 's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works; 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 

Than witches, b-ches, or physicians brew. 

LXIII. 

There was a goodly *' soupe a la bonne femme^'' 

Though God knows whence it came fromj there was too 
A turbot for relief of those who cram, 

Relieved with dindon a la Perigueux ; 
There also was the sinner that I am ! 

How shall I get this gourmand stanza through? 
Soupe a la Beauveau, whose relief was dory. 
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 
But I must crowd all into one grand mess 

Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail. 
My Muse would run much more into excess, 

Than when some squeamish people deem her frai\. 
But, though a " bonne vivante," I must confess 

Her stomach 's not her peccant part ; this tale 
However doth require some slight refection, 
Just to reUeve her spirits from dejection. 

LXV. 
Fowls a la Conde, slices eke of salmon, 

With sauces Genevoise, and haunch of venison ; 
Wines too which might again have slain young Ammon, 

A man like whom I hope we sha'n't see many soon; 
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on. 

Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison ; 
And then there was champagne with foaming whirls. 
As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 
Then there was God knows what "k I'Allemands," 

" A I'Espagnole," "timballe," and "Salpicon" — 
With things I can't withstand or understand. 

Though swallovv'd with much /est upon the whole ; 
And "entremets" to piddle with at hand. 

Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 
While great Lucullus' rnhe triomphale muffles 
{There ^s fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
truffles."* 

LXVII. 
What are the Jillets on the victor's brow 

To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 

Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march? 
Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 

Further I shall not follow the research : 
Brit oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
When will your names lend lustre even *o partridges ? 

Lxvni. 

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
Follow'd by "petits puits d'amour," — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish. 

According to the best of dictionaries, 

W^hich encyclopsedise both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans "confitures,"' it no less true is. 

There's pretty picking in those "pel'ite puits."* 



CA.-4T0 XV. 



DON JUAN. 



695 



LXIX. 

The mind is lost m mighty contemplation 
Of intellect expended on two courses ; 

And inr'igestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 

Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands of nature ? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 

The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
Also the younger men too; for a springald 

Can't like ripe age in gourmandise excel, 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 
The salmi, the consommee, the puree. 

All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber 
Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way : 

I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

"Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay; 

But I have dined, and miist forego, alas ! 

The chaste description even of a " becasse," 

LXXI. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the gout, — 

Taste or the gout., — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do ; 

But after., there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the gout ? I have not had it — 

But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 

LXXIII. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine, 

Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 
I must, although a favourite "plat" of mine 

In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, everywhere: 
On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, 

The grass my table-cloth, in open air. 
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

LXXIV. 
Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl. 

And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
The guests were placed according to their roll. 

But various as the various meats display'd: 
Don Juan sate next an "a I'Espagnole" — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; 
But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest 
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 

LXXV. 
By some odd chance too he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline— 
A situation difficult, I ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
A.so the conference which we have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine ; 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 
VVith two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him. I 
3M 



LXXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears 
This much is sure, that, out of ear-shot, ihmgs 

Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, 

Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs; 

Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 
Which no one hears so loudly though it rings 

'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 

Long dialogues which pass'd without a word ! 

LXXVII. 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

Which piques a preux chevalier — as it ought : 
Of all offences that 's the worst offence, 

W^hich seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught '■ 
Like a good ship entangled among ice. 
And after so much excellent advice. 

LXXVIII. 

To his gay nothings, nothing was repued, 
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required, Aurora scarcely look'd aside. 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride, 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? 

Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, "I said it ;"— 
A kind of triumph I '11 not recommend. 

Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 

For all men prophesy what is or was, 

And hate those who won't let them come to pass, 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 

Slight but select, and just enough to express, 
To females of perspicuous comprehensions. 

That he would rather make them more than less. 
Aurora at the last (so history mentions. 

Though probably much less a fact than guess ; 
So fs relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison. 
As once or twice to smile, if not to listen, 

LXXXI. 
From answering, she began to question : this 

With her was rare ; and Adeline, who as yet 
Thought her predictions went not much amiss. 

Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette— 
So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes from meetmg, when once sei 
In motion ; but she here too much refined — 
Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

LXXXII. 
But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be. 
Which show'd such deference to what females sav 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact too temper'd him from grave to gay, 

And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawing people out. 
Without their sec'ng what he was Ahoui 



694 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAN2 o xr. 



LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flutterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Than whispering fophngs, or than wit.mgs .oud, — 
rommenced (from such slight things will great com- 
mence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment, 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXIV. 
And then he had good looks ; — that point was carried 

Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve 
To say, leads oft to crim. con. with the married — 

A case which to the juries we may leave. 
Since with digressions we too long liave tarried. 

Now though we know of old that looks deceive, 
And always have done, somehow these good looks 
Make more impression than the best of books. 

LXXXV. 
Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 

Was very young, although so very sage, 
Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 

Especially upon a printed page. 
But virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, 

Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 
And Socrates, that model of all duty, 
Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 

LXXXVI. 
And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates : 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these. 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
In virgins — always in a modest way, 
Observe ; for that with me 's a " sine qua.""' 

LXXXVII. 
Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 

(See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 
Opinions two, which at first sight may look 

Twin opposites, the second is the best. 
Perhaps I have a third too in a nook. 

Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest ; 
But if a writer should be quite consistent, 
How could he possibly show things existent ? 

LXXXVIIT. 
If people contradict themselves, can I 

Help contradicting them, and every body. 
Even my veracious self? — but that 's a lie ; 

I never did so, never will — how should I ? 
He who doubts all things, nothing can deny ; 
Truth's fountains may be clear— her streams are 
muddy. 
And cut through such canals of contradiction, 
That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 
Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 

Are false, but may be render'd also true 
By those w no sow them in a land that's arable. 

T is wonderful what fable will not do ! 
*T is said it makes reality more bearable : 

Bit what's reality? Who has its clue? 
philosophy ? No ; she too much rejects. 
Religion?. Ve^ ' but which of all her sects? 



XC. 

Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear 
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 

God help us ! Since we 've need on our career 
To keep our no.y beacons anvays oright, 

'T is time that some new prophet should appea 
Or old indulge man with a second-sight. 

Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 

Without a small refreshment from the spheres 

XCL 

But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics ? None can hate 

So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
And yet such is my folly, or my fate, 

I always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, and future state ; 

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 

For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 

xcn. 

But though I am a temperate theologian, 

And also meek as a metaphysician, 
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 

As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 
In politics, my duty is to show John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecia, 
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 

XCIII. 

But politics, and poHcy, and piety, 
Are topics which I sometimes introduce. 

Not only for the sake of their variety, 
But as subservient to a moral use ; 

Because my business is to dress society. 

And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 

And now, that we may furnish with some matter ali 

Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 

XCIV. 

And now I will give up all argument : 
And positively henceforth no tempation 

Shall " fool me to the top up of my bent ;** 
Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 

Indeed I never knew what people meant 
By deeming that my Muse's conversation 

Was dangerous ; — I think she is as harmless 

As some who labour more and yet may chdrm less. 

XCV. 

Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? 

No ; but you 've heard — I understand — be dumb . 
And don't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mystenous r— 
For certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious? You laugh: — you may; that will I not; 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
I say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — and where? That shall I noi recall, 
Because I 'd rather it should be forgot. 

" Shadows the soul of Richard " may appal : 
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms, vr^ry 
Like those of thv ohilosooher o' Malmsburv.' 



L 



tiA.rro XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



69t 



XCVII. 

The night (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattle*; around me her discordant hymn : 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 

I think too that I have sate up too late: 

XCVIII. 

And therefore, though 't is by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 

To think of, if I ever think, — I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 

And prudently postpone, until mid-day. 
Treating a topic which, alas ! but brings 

Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge : 

How little do we know that which we are ! 

How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 

Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 

Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves 

Of empires heave but Uke some passing waves. 



CANTO XYI. 



I. 

The antique Persians taught three useful things, — 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 

This was the mode of Cyrus — best of kings — 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 

But draw the long bow oetter now than ever. 

n. 

The cause of this effect, or this defect, 

" For this effect defective comes by cause," — 
Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 

But this I must say in my own applause, 
Of all the Muses that I recollect, 

Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 
In some things, mine 's beyond all contradictio i 
The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

III. 
And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 

From any thing, this Epic will contain 
A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain, 
ris true there be some bitters with the sv;eets, 

Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain. 
But ivonder they so few are, since my tale is 
•♦De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 



IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she \s about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 
What then ? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the Hmits of the coast 

Where all the dwellers of the earth must dweJ ? 

'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle ; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible, 

Because 'i is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Quiets at once with "gw/a impossibile." 

VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 

Believe: — if 'tis improbable you must; 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely to recall 

Those holier mysteries, which the wise and jusi 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed. 

VII. 

I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 

That in the course of some six thousand years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears ; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head. 
Is that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger sti* 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

VIII. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done, 

The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, 
The banqueters had dropp'd off one by one — 

The song was silent, and the dance expired : 
The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone, 

Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired. 
And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloor 
Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 

IX. 
The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt; 
Or like a soda-bottle, when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind ; 

X. 
Or Hke an opiate which brings troubled resi. 

Or none; or like — like nothing that I kn^*w 
Except itself; — such is the human breast; 

A thing, of which similituf^es can show 
No real likeness, — like the oia Tyrian ves^ 

Dyed purple, none at present can tell hof 
If from a shell-fish or from cocnineal. ' 
So perish every tyrant's "obe piecemeal ' 



696 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XVI 



XI. 

But next to dressing for a rout cr ball, 
Undressing is a woe ; our robe-de-chambre 

May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. 

Titus exclaim'd, "I've lost a day!" Of all 

The nights and days most peop.e can remember, 

(I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd), 

I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 

And Juan, on retiring for the night. 

Felt restless and perplex 'd, and compromised ; 

He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 

If he had known exactly his own plight, 
He probably would have philosophized ; 

A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 

Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

xm. 

He sigh'd; — the next resource is the full moon, 
Where all sighs are deposited; and now, 

It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow ; 

And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
To hail her with the apostrophe — "Oh, thou!" 

Of amatory egotism the tuism. 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 

XIV. 

But lover, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold. 

Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: 
Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold 

Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err); 
Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 

T he ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways. 

And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 

For contemplation rather than his pillow ; 
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 

Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, 
With all the mystery by midnight caused ; 

Below his window waved (of course) a willow ; 
And he stood gazing out on the cascade 
That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 

XVI. 
Upon his table or his toilet — which 

Of these is not exactly ascertain'd — 
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) 
A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche. 

Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd. 
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 
Then, as the night was clear, though cold, he threw 

His chamber-door wide open — and went forth 
Into a gallery, of a sombre hue. 

Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth. 
Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too. 

As doubtless should be people of high birth. 
But by dim lignts the portraits of the dead 
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 



XVIII. 

The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 

Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
Start from the frames which fence their aspects st<r<« 

As if to ask how can you dare to keep 

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave. 
The charms of other days, in starlight gleams 

Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 

But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability, 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people, as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd. 

Now in the moonhght, and now lapsed in shade, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird. 

But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by. 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
Of such a spirit in these halls of old. 

But thought, like most men, there was nothing m '' 
Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, 

Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint. 
Which passes ghosts in currency like gold. 

But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 

And did he see this? or was it a vapour? 

xxin. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of aii 

Or earth beneath, or heaven, or 't other place; 
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 
As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 
He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted 
To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 
The third time, after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'd away— but where ? the hall 
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 

To think his vanishing unnatural: 
Doors there were many, through which, by the lawa 

Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 
Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 
Through which the spectre seeni'd to evaporate- 



CANTO A 1 7. 



DON JUAN. 



697 



XXV. 

He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 

Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd ; 
Then by degrees recall'd his energies. 

And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, 
But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise, 

Waking aheady, and return'd at length 

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 

XXVI. 

All there was as he left it ; still his taper 
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour ; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their office; he took up an old newspaper; 
The paper was right easy to peruse ; 

He read an article the king attacking. 

And a long eulogy of " Patent Blacking." 

XXVII. 

This savour'd of this world ; but his hand shook— 
He shut his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he 'd seen his phantasy he fed. 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXVIII. 

He woke betimes ; and, as may be supposed, 
Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, 

And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 
At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 

The more he thought, the more his mind was posed ; 
In the mean time his valet, whose precision 

Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 

Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dress'd ; and, like young people, he was wont 

To take some trouble with his toilet, but 
This morning rather spent less time upon 't ; 

Aside his very mirror soon was put : 
His curls fell negligently o'er his front. 

His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut. 
His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 
Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 

XXX. 
And when he walk'd down into the saloon. 

He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, 
VVhich he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 

Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be. 
Which made him have recourse unto his spoon ; 

So much distrait he was, that all could see 
That something was the matter — Adeline 
The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 
She look'd and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 

Herself; then hastily look'd down and mutter'd 
Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. 

Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill butter'd ; 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil. 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 
Aurora Raby, with her large dark ej'es, 
Survey'd him wifh a kind of calm surprise. 
3 M 2 9? 



XXXII. 

But seeing him all cold and silent stiL, 
And every body wondering more or less, 

Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill ? 

He sta: ted, and said, " Yes — no — rather — yes." 

The family physician had great skill, 

And, being present, now began to express 

His readiness to feel his pulse, and tell 

The cause, but Juan said, " he was quite vi^ell." 

XXXIII. 

" Quite well; yes, no."— These answers were myste- 
rious, 

And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both. 
However they might savour of delirious ; 

Somethmg hke illness of a sudden growth 
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious.. 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 
Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate. 

Also the muffin, whereof he complain'd. 
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate. 

At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd ; 
Then ask'd her grace what news were of the duke of late? 

Her grace replied, his grace was rather pain'd 
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan,' and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state : 
" You look," quoth he, " as if you 'd had your rest 

Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 
" What friar ?" said Juan ; and he did his best 

To put the question with an air sedate, 
Or careless ; but the effort was not vahd 
To hinder him from growing still more palhd. 

XXXVI. 
" Oh ! have you never heard of the Black Friar ? 

The spirit of these walls ?"—" In truth not I." 
" Why fame — but fame you know sometime 's a har— 

Tells an odd story, of which by the by : 
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer. 

Or that- our sires had a more gifted eye 
For such sights, though the tale is half beheved, 
The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 
XXXVII. 

"The last time was " "I pray," said Adeline— 

(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 
And from its context thought she could divine 
Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 
With this same legend),—" if you but design 

To jest, you '11 choose some other theme just now. 
Because the present tale has oft been told. 
And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 

"Jest!" quoth Milor, "Why, Adeline, you know 

That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon— 

Saw " "Well, no matter, 'twas so long ago: 

But come, I'll set your story to a tune." 
Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow, 

She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled sofw 
As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Grav.** 



098 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO xn 



XXXIX. 

" But add Ihe words," cried Henry, " which you made, 

For Adeline is half a poetess," 
lurning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the otliers could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, tha words, the harper's skill, at once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After some fascuiating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, 
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation — 

Fair Adeline, with eyes fk'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation, 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 

1. 

Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman Chuixh his prey, 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 

2. 
Though became in his might, with King Henry's right. 

To turn church lands to lay, 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay, 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 

And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, 

Though he is not seen by day. 

3. 
And whether fcr good, or whether for ill. 

It is not mine to say ; 
But still to the house of Amundeville, 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 

He flits on the bridal eve; 
And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 
He comes — but not to grieve. 
4. 
When an heir is bom^ he is heard to mourn. 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He waks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'T IS shadow'd by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 
And they seem of a parted soul. 
5. 
tiut oeware ! beware of the Black Friar, 

Ha still retains his sway, 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amunaeville is lord by day. 

But the monk is lord by night, 
N^or wine noi wassail could raise a vassal 
To que-stion that friar's right. 



Say nought to him as he walks the hall. 

And he '11 say nought to you : 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar ; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul. 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XLl. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound , 

And the pause follow'd, which, when song expires. 
Pervades a moment those who hsten round; 

And then of course the circle much admires. 
Nor less applauds, as in poUteness bound. 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 

To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XLII. 

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 
As if she rated such accomphshment 

As the mere pastime of an idle day. 
Pursued an instant for her own content, 

Would now and then as 't were without display, 
Yet with display in fact, at times relent 

To such performances with haughty smile. 

To show she could, if it were worth her while. 

XLin. 

Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion. 

For a spoil'd carpet — but the "Attic Bee" 

Was much consoled by his ovra repartee.^ 

XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade 

(By doing easily, whene'er she chose. 
What dilettanti do with vast parade), 

Their sort of half profession : for it grow 
To something like this when too oft display'd, 

And that it is so every body knows 
Who 've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T' othei 
Show off — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 
Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 

The admirations and the speculations ; 
The "Mamma Mias!" and the "Amor Mios !" 

The " Tanti Palpitis " on such occasions : 
The "Lasciamis," and quavering "Addios!" 

Amongst our own most musical of nations ; • 
With " Tu mi chamases " from Portingale, 
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.^ 

XLVI. 
In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highldnds, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
The calentures of music wnich o'ercorae 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh landfli, 
No more to be beheld but in such visions,- - 
Was Adeline wen versed as compositions. 



'JANTO XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



69r* 



XLvn. 

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue," 
Could write rhymes, and compose more than she \vrote; 

Made epigrams occasionally too 

Upon her friends, as every body ought. 

But still from that sublimer azure hue, 

So much the present dye, she was remote ; 

Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 

And, what was worse, was not ashamed to shovj it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 
Which now-a-days is the thermometer 

By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 
Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 

The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 
Had more of her existence, for in her 

There was a depth of feeling to embrace 

Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space. 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 

Also thereon, — but that 's not much ; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven, 

For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 

L. 

I have not heard she was at all poetic. 

Though once she was seen reading the " Bath Guide," 

And " Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pathetic, 
Because, she said, her temper had been tried 

So much, the bard had really been prophetic 

Of what she had gone through with, — since a bride. 

But of all verse what most insured her praise 

Were sonnets to herself, or "bouts rimes." 

LI. 

'Twere difficult to say what was the object 

Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
To bear on what appear'd to her the subject 

Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
Perhaps she merely had the simple project 

To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it. 
Though why I cannot say — at least this minute. 

LII. 
But so far the immediate effect 

Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 
A thing quite necessary to the elect. 

Who wish to take the tone of their society ; 
In which you cannot be too circumspect. 

Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 
But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, 
On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LHI. 
And therefore Juan now began to rally 

His spirits, and, without more explanation. 
To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 

Her grace too also seized the same occasion, 
With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 
Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 
About the present family's deaths and wooings. 



LIV. 

Of these few could say more than has been said ; 

They pass'd, as such things do, for supersrition 
With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition ; 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 

But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision, 
Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd iti 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 
And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 

The company prepeired to separate : 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none ; 

Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
There was a goodly match, too, to be run 

Between some grayhounds on my lord's estate, 
And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 

LVI. 
There v^as a picture-dealer, who had brought - 

A special Titian, warranted original. 
So precious that it was not to be bought. 

Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 

The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 
But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 

The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner. 
With motives the most classical and pure, 

So that he would have been the very donor 
Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 

So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, 
Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale. 
But for his ^dgment, — never known to fail. 

LVIII. 

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, 
Brought to survey these gray walls, which, though so 
thick. 

Might have from time acquired some slight defect , 
Who, after rummaging the Abbey through thick 

And thin, produced a plan, whereby \o erect 
New buildings of correctest conformation, 
And throw down old — which he call'd restondion. 

LIX. 
The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 

Set to some thousands ('tis the usual burthen 
Of that same tune, when people hum it long)— 

The price would speedily repay its worth in 
An edifice no less sublime than strong. 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in 
Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 
For Gothic daring shown in English money.* 

LX. 
There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 

Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase ; 
Also a lawsuit upon terarss burgage. 

And one on tithes which sure are discord's torches 
Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage. 

"Untying" squires "to hght against thecnurches:" 
There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and plcugnnan 
For Herrv was a sort of Sabine showmi n 



00 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XVI 



LXI. 

T here were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for jail, tlieir place of convalescence ; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 

And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since — 

Since — since — in youth I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily I've paid few parish fees since). 

I'hat scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigour, 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

LXII. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out, 

Therefore the present piece of natural history 
I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt. 

And merely state, though not for the consistory, 
Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 

The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 

Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 

LXIII. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the country from caprices 

Of those who 've not a license for the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame: 

Preserving partridges and prett}' wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 

LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale. 

Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale, 

'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail. 
Poor soul ! for she was country born and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXV. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espi^gle eye 

Had gather'd a large tear into its corner, 
Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry. 

For she was not a sentimental mourner, 
Parading all her sensibility. 

Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 
But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 
To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXVI. 
(>f course these groups were scatter'd here and there. 

Not niglv the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
The lawyers in the study; and in air 

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 
From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 

Both busy (as a general in his tent 
Writing despatches) in their several stations, 
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

LXVII. 
But this poor gir' was left in the great hall, 

While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 
Piscuss'd (he hated b*^er yciept the "small") 

A miglity mug of moral double ale : 
Stie waited until Justice could recall 

Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 
'i'o ranie a thing in nomenclature rather 
Poi n exir.g for most virgins — a child's father. 



LXVIII. 

You see here was enough of occupation 

For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses, 

There was much bustle too and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses, 

Because, as suits their rank and situation, 

Those who in counties have great land resources, 

Have "public days," when all men may carouse, 

Though not exactly what 's call'd " open house "— 

LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, wninvited 
(Thus we translate a general invitation)^ 

All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 

May drop in without cards, and take their station 

At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation ; 

And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion, 

Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election. 

LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer. 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit, 

But country contests cost him rather dearer, 

Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbi< 

Had English influence in the self-same sphere hero 
His son, the Honourable Dick Dice-drabbit, 

Was member for "the other interest" (meaning 

The self-same interest, with a different leaning). 

LXXL 

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, 
He was all things to all men, and dispensed 

To some civility, to others bounty, 

And promises to all— which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But, what with keeping some and breaking others. 

His word had the same value as another's. 

Lxxn. 

A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
No less a friend to government — he held 

That he exactly the just medium hit 

'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd. 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd). 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 

But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 

Lxxin. 

He was "free to confess" — (whence comes this phrase ? 

Is 't English ? No — 't is only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit now-a-days 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a factious path to praise. 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture high ; 
As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
That the fatigue was greater than the profi.t. 

LXXIV. 
Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 

Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 
But could he quit his king in times of strife 

Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition ? 
When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 

Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!) 
The Gordian or the Geordian knot, whose strings 
Have tied together Commons, Lord , ar d Kmgs 



CANTO XVi. 



DON JUAN. 



701 



txxv. 

Sooner " come plact, ^Mo the civil list, 

And champion him to the utmost" — he would keep it, 
Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : 

Profit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 
But should the day come when place ceased to exist. 

The country would have far more cause to weep it ; 
For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! 
He gloried in the name of Englishman. 

LXXVI. 
He was as mdependent — ay, much more — 

Than those who were not paid for independence. 
As common soldiers, or a common shore 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 
O'er the irregulars in lust or gore 

Who do not give professional attendance. 
Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 
To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXVII. 
All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 

And thought. I say no more — I 've said too much ; 
For all of us have either heard or read 

Of — or upon the hustings — some slight such 
Hints from the independent heart or head 

Of the official candidate. I '11 touch 
No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 
And grace is said ; the grace I should have sung — 

LXXVIII. 
But I'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 't was a public feast and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And every body out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 
The squires familiarly formal, and 

My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 
The very servants puzzling how to hand 

Their plates — without it might be too much bending 
From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 

Yet, Uke their masters, fearful of offending ; 
For any deviation from the graces 
Might cost both men and masters too — their places, 

LXXX. 
There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen. 

Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor grayhounds deign'd 
to lurch ; 
Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen 

Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 
Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 

There were some massy members of the church. 
Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches. 
And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 

LXXXI. 
There were some country wags, too, — and, alas ! 

Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass. 

And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven. 
And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhelming son of Heaven, 
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd w'*',- 



LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 
A brilliant diner-out, though but a curate ; 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 

(Oh, Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways, 
Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurats ? 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Linco'm, 

A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 

Lxxxin. 

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 

But both were thrown away amongst the fens ; 
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 

The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long. 
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, "between 
A beggar and a queen," or was (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we've seen — 
But we'll say nothing of affairs of state) — 

A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
A difference between crockery-ware and plate, 

As between English beef and Spartan broth — 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

LXXXV. 

But of all Nature's discrepancies, none 
Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town. 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those who've few resources of their own, 
And only think, or act, or feel with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But "en avant!" The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know. 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 

Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place he knew not where, 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair ; 
Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fra^ 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there. 
Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXVIII. 

On which, at the third asking of the bans, . 
He started ; and, perceiving smiles arouna 

Broadening to grins, he coloured more than oncb. 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce- 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound, 

And with such hurry that, eie he could curb .t. 

He'd paid his neighbour's prayer with half a i.'aioot., 



02 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XVa 



LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, 

The supplicator being an amateur ; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third. 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Haa fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 

XC. 

They little knew, or might have sympathized. 
That he the night before had seen a ghost ; 

A prologue, which but slightly harmonized 
With the substantial company engross'd 

By matter, and so much materiahzed, 
That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 

Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 

Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

XCI. 

But what confused him more than smile or stare 
From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, 

Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 
Especially as he had been renown'd 

For some vivacity among the fair. 

Even in the country circle's narrow bound — 

(For little things upon my lord's estate 

Were good small-talk for others still less great) — 

XCII. 

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his. 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss : 
In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive ; and in this 

Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique. 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIII. 

'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation. 

Which was not very wise and still less witty, 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 

XCIV. 
But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn. 

Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary; 
Her aspect was, as usual, still — not stern — 

And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
Vet grew a little pale — with what ? concern ? 

1 know not ; but her colour ne'er was high — 
Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcy. 

But Adeline was occupied by fame 

This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 

And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
y\3 all must blend whose part it is to aim 

» Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At incir lord's, son's, and sinjilar connexions' 
^&ff conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 



XCVI. 

Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 

On Adehne while playing her grand role, 
Which she went through as though it were a dance 

(Betraying only now and then her soul 
By a look scarce perceptibly askance 

Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 

Some doubt how much of Adeline was real ; 

XCVII. 

So well she acted all and every part 
By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 

Which many peop.e take for want of heart. 
They err — 't is merely what is call'd mobiUty,® 

A thing of temperament, and not of art. 

Though seeming so, from its supposed faciUty; 

And false — though true ; for surely they 're sincerest, 

Who 're strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCVIII. 

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 
Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never ; 

But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers. 
Little that 's great, but much of what is clever ; 

Most orators, but very few financiers. 

Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour. 

Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, 

And grow quite figurative with their figures. 

XCIX. 

The poets of arithmetic are they. 

Who, though they prove not two and Iwo to be 
Five, as they would do in a modest wty, 

Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
Judging by what they take and what tl.cy pay. 

The Sinking Fund's unfathomable s<a, 
That most unliquidating hquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

C. 

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 

The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease ; 
Though too well-bred to quiz men to ihwir faces. 

Her laughing blue eyes with a glance Cwuld sewi 
The ridicules of people in all places — 

That honey of your fashionable bees — 
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 
And this at present was her kind employment. 

CL 
However, the day closed, as days must close ; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came. 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame. 
Retired: with most unfashionable bows 

Their docile esquires also did the same. 
Delighted with the dinner and their host. 
But with the lady x\deline the most. 

cn. 

Some praised her beauty ; others her great grace ; 

The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
Was obvious in each feature of her face. 

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of ve'".'-y. 
Yes : she was truly worthy her high p'ace ! 

No one could envy her deserved prosperity : 
And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity "^ 



CANTO XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



703 



cm. 

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation, 
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
And truculent distortion of thei 



CIV. 

True, sk>3 said little — 't was the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram; 
But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's "faint praise" so wont to damn 
Her own but served to set off every joke, 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 
I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 



CV. 

There were but two exceptions to this keen 
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 

Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
And Juan too, in general behind none 

In gay remark on what he 'd heard or seen, 
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone : 

In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 

He would not join them in a single sally. 

CVI. 

T is true he saw Aurora look as thouj;fh 
She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 

[ts motive for that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 

Further ; it might or it might not be so : 
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 

Observing little in his reverie, 

Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much good. 

In making him as silent as a ghost. 
If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
And certainly Aurora had renew'd 

In him some feelings he had lately lost 
Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal. 
Are so divine, that I must deem them real: — 

CVIII. 

The love of higher things and better days ; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and (he world's ways ; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its ovra. 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

CIX. 
Who would not sigh At at rav KvdripEiav ! 

That hath a memory, or that had a heart? 
Alas ! her star must wane like that of Dian, 

Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
Anacreon only had the soul to tie on 

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
Of Eros ; but, though thou hast play'd us many tricks, 
Still we respect thee, "Alma Venus Genitrix!" 



ex. 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 

Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 

Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 

Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 

And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before : he was undrest. 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : 

Completely "sans culotte," and without vest ; 
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less ; 

But, apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
He sate, with feelings awkward to express 

(By those who have not had such visitations), 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 

And not in vain he hsten'd — Hush ! what 's that ? 

I see — I see — Ah, no ! 't is not — yet 't is — 
Ye powers ! it is the — the— the — Pooh ! the cat ! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his ! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous. 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again what is 't ? The wind ? No, no,— thw time 

It is the sable friar as before. 
With awful footsteps, regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again, through shadows of the night sublime. 

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood curdle, 

CXIV. 

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,^ 

Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter,. 

Like showers which on the midnight guests will pass 
Sounding like very supernatural water, — 

Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 
For immaterialism 's a serious matter: 

So that even those whose faith is the most great 

In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tSte. 

cxv. 

Were his e3^es open? — Yes! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb. 
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips throogh 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum: 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next? — the doo» 

CXVI. 
It open'd with a most infernal creak, 

Like that of hell. "Lasciate ogiii speranza, 
Vio che entrate!" The hinge seem'd to speak. 

Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanz^a ; 
Or — but all words upon such themes are weatt-. 

A single shade 's sufficient to entrance h 
Hero — for what is substance to a spirit? 
Or how is 't matter trembles to come near i 7 



704 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO XVI 



CXVII. 

The hoot flew wide, not swiftly — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And tnen swung back ; nor close — but stood awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 

WhicK still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 

And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable friar in his solemn hoed. 

CXVIII. 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
The night before ; but, being sick of shaking. 

He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 

His own internal ghost began to awaken 

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking — 

Hinting, that ^oul and body on the whole 

Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce ; 

And he arose — advanced — the shade retreated ; 
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

FoUow'd ; his veins no longer cold, but heated, 
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 

At whatsoever risk of being defeated: 
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 

cxx. 

Juan put forth one arm — Eternal Powers ! 

It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall. 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers 

Chequcr'd with ali the tracery of the hall : 
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell w^hat 't is that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.^ 

cxxi. 

But still the shade remain'd ; the blue eyes glared. 

And rather variably for stony death ; 
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared — 

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. 
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 

A red lip, with two rows of pearl beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 

CXXII. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 

His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder ! 
It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust. 

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 
He found, as people on most trials must, 

That he had made at fi-^ a silly blunder, 
And that in his confusion he .;ad caught 
Only the wall instead of what he sought. 

C XXIII. 
The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul. 

As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
A dimpled chin a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and blood; 
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl. 

And they reveal'd (alas! that e'er they should!) 
In lui;, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk. 
The ohaniom of her frolic grace — Fitz-Fulke ! 



NOTES. 



CANTO I. 

Note 1. Stanza v. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 

" Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona," etc. — Horace. 

Note 2. Stanza xvii. 
Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar! 
" Description des vertus incomparables de I'huile de 
Macassar." — See the advertisement. 

Note 3. Stanza xlii. 
Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. 

See Longinus, Section 10, "va jxri %v ri irepi alrhv 

itddog (paivTjrai^ ~aQ(bv Si cvvohog. 

Note 4. Stanza xliv. 
They only add them all in an appendix. 
Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with aU ihe 
obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
the end. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxxviii. 
The bard I quote from does not sing amiss. 
Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming; (I think) the 
opening cf Canto II. but quote from memory. 

Note 6. Stanza cxlviii. 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? 

Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly 
did not take Algiers — but Algiers very nearly took him ; 
he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and 
not much credit, from before that city, in the year 17 — . 

Note 7. Stanza ccxvi. 
JMy days of love are o'er, me no more. 
" Me nee fcemina, nee puer 
Jam, nee spes animi eiedula mutui; 

Nee certare juvat mero. 
Nee vincire novis tempora floribus." 



CANTO III. 



Note 1. Stanza xlv. 
For none likes more to hear himself converse. 
Rispose allor Margutte : a dirtel tosto, 

lo non credo piu al nero, ch' a TazzuTro; 

Ma nel eappone, o lesso, o vuogli airosto; 

E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro, 

Ne la cervogia, e quan&o' io n' ho nel mosto; 

E molto piu ne I'aspro che il mangurro; 

Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fade ; 

E credo che sia salvo chi gli credo. 
PULCI, Morgante Maggiore, Canto 18, Stanza 115 

Note 2. Stanza Lxxi. 

That e'er by precious metal was held in. 

This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are 

worn in the manner described. The reader will per 

ceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee was of 

Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. 



DON JUAN. 



705 



Note 3. Stanza Ixxii. 
A like gold bar, above her instep roil'd. 
The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sov- 
ereign rank in the women of the families of the Deys, 
and is worn as such by their female relatives. 

Note 4. Stanza Lxxiii. 
Her person if allow'd at large to run. 
This is no exaggeration j there were four women 
whom I remember to have seen, wno possessed their 
hair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, the 
other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that length 
and quantity that, when let down, it almost entirely 
shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a su- 
perfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair ; the Ori- 
ental's had, perhaps, the hghtest colour of the four. 

Note 5. Stanza cvii. 
Oh Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things. 
'E(r7r£/)£, iravTa (pepeig, 
^epeiS oivov, (pepeig aiya^ 
<t£p£tS fxarepi -rraiSa. 

Fragment of Sappho. 

Note 6. Stanza cviii. 
Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
"Era gia 1' ora che volge 'I disio, 

A' naviganti e 'ntenerisce il cuore 
Lo di oh' ban detto a' dolci amici addio, 

E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore 
Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano 
Che paja '1 giorno pianger che si muore." 

DANTE'S Purgatory, Canto viii. 

This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by 
him without acknowledgement. 

Note 7. Stanza cix. 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb. 

See Suetonius for this fact. 



CANTO IV. 



Note 1. Stanza xii. 
" Whom the gods love, die young," was said of yore. 
See Herodotus. 

Note 2. Stanza lix. 
A vein had burst. 
This is no very uncommon eftect of the violence of 
conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
Foscari, on his deposition, in 1457, hearing the bell 
of St. Mark announce the election of his successor, 
" mourut subitement d'lme hemorrhagic causee par une 
veine qui s'eclata dans 3 s. poitrine," (see Sismondi and 
Daru, vols. i. -Knd ii.) af. th3 age of eighty years, when 
*'• who would hav<2 thought the old man had so much blood 
in him ?" Before I was sixteen years of age, I was 
witness to a melancholy instance of the same effect 
of mixed passions upon a young person ; who, how- 
ever, did not die in consequence, at that time, but fell 
£ victim some years afterwards to a seizure of the same 
kmdj arising from causes intimately connected with 
agitation of mind. 

Note 3. Stanza Ixxx. 
But Bold by the impresario at no liish rate. 
This is a l-ict. ^ few years ago, a man engaged a 
ii N 94 



company for some foreign theatre ; embarked them at 
an Italian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold 
them all. One of the women, returned from her caj>- 
tivity, I heard sing, by a strange coincidence, in Ros- 
sini's opera of " L'ltaliana in Algieri," at Venice, iri 
the beginning of 1817. 

Note 4. Stanza Lxxxvi. 
From all the pope makes yearly, 'twould perplex. 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 

It is strange that it should be the pope and the sultan 
who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade — 
women being prohibited as singers at St. Peter's, and 
not deemed trustworthy as guardians of the haram. 

Note 5. Stanza ciii. 
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base 
The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna, ii 
about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of 
the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, 
who gained the battle, was killed in it ; there fell on 
both sides twenty thousand men. The present state 
of the pillar and its site is described in the text. 



CANTO V. 



Note 1. Stanza iii. 

The ocean stream. 

This expression of Homer has been much criticised. 

It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, 

but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the 

Bosphorus, with the ^gean, intersected with islands. 

Note 2. Stanza v. 
"The Giant's Grave." 
" The Giant's Grave " is a height on the Asiatic 
shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
parties ; like Harrow and Highgate. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
And running out as fabt I was able. 
The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth 

of December, 1820. m the streets of R , not a 

hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The 
circumstances were as described. 

Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, 
sawn half off": it had just been discharged, and was 
still warm. 

Note 5. Stanza liii. 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
In Turkey, nothing is more common, than for the 
Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by 
way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as 
six of raki before dinner, and swear that they dined 
the better for it • I tried the experiment, but was like 
the Scotchman, who having heard that the birds caheil 
kitliewiaks were admirable whets, ate six of them, ano 
complained that " he was no hungrier than ivhe/n ut 
began.'' ^ 

Note 6. S .anza Iv. 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, droppmg 
A marble fountain echoes. 

A common furniture. — I recollect being received d» 



706 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ali Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin and 
f.>untain, etc., etc., etc. 

Note 7. Stanza Ixxxvii. 
The gate so splendid was in ali its features. 
Features of a gate — a ministerial metaphor ; «' the 
feature upon which this question hinges." — Seo the 
"Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 

Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers. 
There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
ihan the hand : it is almost the only sign of blood 
which aristocracy can generate. 

Note 9. Stanza cxlvii. 
Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 

It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in 
his essay on " Empire," hints that Solyman was the 
last of his line ; on what authority, I know not. These 
are his words : " The destruction of Mustapha was so 
fatal to Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks 
from Solyman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, 
and of strange blood ; for that Solymus the Second was 
thought to be supposititious." But Bacon, in his his- 
torical authorities, is often inaccurate. I could give 
half a dozen instances from his apophthegms only. 

Being in the humour of criticism, I shall proceed, 
after ha\ ing ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch 
on one or two as trifling in the edition of the British 
Poets, by the justly-celebrated Campbell.— But I do 
this in good will, and trust it will be so taken. — If any 
thing could add to my opinion of the talents and true 
feeling of that gentleman, it would be his classical, 
honest, and triumphant defence of Pope, against the 
vulgar cant of the day, and its existing Grub-street. 

The madvertencies to which I allude, are,— 

Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses of 
having taken " his leading characters from Smollett.''^ 
Anstey's Bath Guide was published in 1766. Smollett's 
Humphry Clinker (the only work of Smollett's from 
which Tabitha, etc., etc. could have been taken) was 
written during SmoUeifs last residence at Leghorn, in 
1770. — " Argal^" if there has been any borrowing, 
Anstey must be the creditor, and not the debtor. I 
reler Mr. Campbell to his own data in his lives of Smol- 
ktt and Anstey. 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says, in the life of Cowper 
(note to page 358, vol. 7), that " he knows not to whom 
Cowper alludes in these lines ; 

" Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born, 
Built God a church, and langh'd his word to scorn." 

The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of Fer- 
ney, with its inscription, " Deo erexit Voltaire." 

Ihirdiy, m the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes Shak- 
speare thus. — 

" To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
Or add fresh perfume to the violet." 

This version by no means improves the original, 
wmnn is as follows : 

To gild refined gt d, to paint the Uly, 
To tlirow a perfumt on the violet," etc. 

King John. 

A great p>et, quoting another, should be correct ; he 
tnoulil also Ai accurate when he accuses a Parnassian 



brother of that dangerous charge "borrowing:" a 
poet had better borrow any thing (exceptmg money) 
than the thoughts of another they are always sur« to 
be reclaimed : but it is very hard, having been the 
lender^ to be denounced as the debtor, as is the case of 
Anstey versus Smollett. 

As there is " honour amongst thieves," let there be 
some amongst poets, and give each his due, — none can 
afford to give it more than Mr. Camnbell himself, who, 
with a high reputation for originality, and a fame which 
cannot be shaken, is the only poet of the times (except 
Rogers) who can be reproached (and in him it is in- 
deed a reproach) with having written loo little. 



CANTO VI. 



Stanza bcxv. 
A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found. 
'* Nel mezzo del cammin' di nostia vita 
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura," etc., etc., etc. 



CANTO VII. 



Stanza li. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 

Fact : Souvaroffdid this in person. 



CANTO VIII. 



Note I. Stanza viii. 
All sounds it pierceth, " Allah ! Allah ! Hu !" 
"Allah! Hu !" is properly the war-cry of the Mus 
sulmans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which 
gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 
Note 2. Stanza ix. 
" Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daughter." 
" But thy most dreaded instrument 
In working out a pure intent, 
Is man airay'd for mutual slaughter ; 
Yea, Carnage is thy daughter T' 

WORDSWORTH'S Thanksgiving Ode. 

To wit, the deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 
pedigree for murder as ever was found out by Garter- 
Kuig-at-arms. — What would have been said, had any 
free-spoken people discovered such a lineage 1 
Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 
A fact ; see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect rev 
marking at the time to a friend; — " There is fame! a 
man is killed — his name is Grose, and they print it 
Grove." I was at college with the deceased, who 
was a very amiable and dever man, and his society in 
great request for his wit, gayety, and "• chansons k 
boire." 

Note 4. Stanza xxui. 

A any other notion, and not nationaf. 

See Maji Valiancy and Sir Lawrence Par sous. 



DON JUAN. 



707 



Note 5. Stanza xxv. 
'T w pity "that such meanings should pave hell." 
The Portuguese proverb says that " Hell is paved with 
go^( intentions." 

Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 
Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this 
friar. 

Note 7. Stanza xlvii. 
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 
They were but two feet high above the level. 

Note 8. Stanza xcvii. 
That you and I will win Saint George's collar. 
The Russian military order. 

Note 9. Stanza cxxxiii. 

{Powers 
Eternal ! such names mingled !) " Ismail 's ours !" 

In the original Russian — 

•' Slava bogu ! slava vam ! 
Krepost Vzala, y i'a tam." 

A kind of couplet ; for he was a poet. 



CANTO IX. 



Note 1. Stanza i. 
Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay!" 
Query, Ney7 — Printer's Devil. 

Note 2. Stanza vi. 
And send the sentinel before your gate 
A sHcfi or two from your luxurious meals. 

" I at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with four 
others. — We were sent to break biscuit, and make a 
mess for Lord Wellington's hounds. I was very hungry, 
and thought it a good job at the time, as we got our ovm 
*ill while we broke the biscuit, — a thing I had not got 
for some days. When thus engaged, the Prodigal Son 
v/as never once out of my mind ; and I sighed, as I fed 
the dogs, over my humble situation and my ruined 
hopes." — Journal of a Soldier of the list Regt. during 
the war in Spain. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
Because he could no more digest his dinner. 
He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had 
•^een exasperated, by his extreme costivity, to a degree 
irf" insanity. 

Note 4. Stanza xlvii. 
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
He was the "grande passion" of the grande Cathe- 
rine. — See her Lives, under the head of "Lanskoi." 

Note 5. Stanza xlix. 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
His parts of speech. 
This was written long before the suicide of that 
rerson. 



Note 6. Stanza Ixiii. 
Your " fortune" was in a fair way " to swell 

A man," as Giles says. 

"His fortune swells him, it is rank, he's married."— 
Sir Giles Overreach; Massinger. — See"-4iVeto IVay 

to Pay Old Debts.'' 



CANTO X. 



Note 1. Stanza xiii. 
Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes." 
"Reformers," or rather " Reformed." The Baron 
Bradwardine, in Waverley, is authority for the woid. 

Note 2. Stanza xv. 
The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt. 

Query, suit ? — Printer's Devil. 

Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
Balgounie's Brig's black wall. 
The brig of Don, near the " auld toun" of Aberdeen, 
with its one arch and its black deep salmon stream below, 
is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, thougn 
perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which made 
me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish 
dehght, being an only son, at least by the mother's side. 
The saying, as recollected by me, was this — but I have 
never heard or seen it since I was nine years of age ; — 

" Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa'; 
Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's ae foal, 
Down ye shall fa'l" 

Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chaunt 
Thy praise, hypocrisy ! 

A metaphor taken from the "forty-horse power" of 
a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend S. S., 
sitting by a brother-clergyman at dinner, observed after 
wards that his dull neighbour had a *■'■ twelve-parson 
power" of conversation. 

Note 5. Stanza xxxvi. 
To strip the Saxons of tlieir hydes, like tanners. 
" Hyde." — I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate 
word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble. 

Note 6. Stanza xlix. 
Was given to her favourite, and now bore his,. 
The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied bj 
the Emperor Joseph, in the year — ^I forget which. 

Note 7. Stanza Iviii. 
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of *' Biron." 
In the Empress Anne's time, Biren her favourite as 
sumed the name and arms of the " Birons" of France, 
which families are yet extant with that of England. 
There are still the daughters of Courland of that name ; 
one of them I remember seeing in England in the blessea 
year of the Allies — the Duchess of S. — to whom tn« 

English Duchess of S 1 presented me a& a namt>- 

sake. 



708 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Note 8. Stanza Ixii. 
Eleven I aousand maidenheads of bone, 
The greatest number flesh hatJi ever known. 

St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still 
extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever. 

Note 9. Stanza Ixxxi. 

Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other. 
India. America. 



CANTO XL 



Note 1. Stanza xix. 
Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing) 
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? 

The advance of science and of language has rendered 
it unnecessary to translate the above good and true 
English, spoken in its original purity by the select 
mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza 
of a song which was very popular, at least in my early 
uays : — 

'* On tlie high toby-spice flash the muzzle, 

In spite of each gallows old scout; 
If you at the spelken can't hustle. 

You'll be hobbled in making a Clout. 

Then your blowing will wax gallows haughty. 
When she hears of your scaly mistake, 

She'll surely turn snitch for the forty, 
That her Jack may be regular weight." 

If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal 
pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of 
Pugilism ; who I trust still retains the strength and 
symmetry of his model of a form, together with his 
good humour, and athletic as well as mental accom- 
plishments. 

Note 2. Stanza xxix. 
St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells." 
" Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may 
now be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age 
I knew them pretty accurately, both "gold" and 
•'silver." I was once nearly called out by an acquaint- 
ance, because when he asked me where I thought that 
his soul would be found hereafter, I answered, "In 
Silver HeU." 

Note 3. Stanza xliii. 

and therefore even I won't anent 

This subject quote. 

♦♦Anent" was a Scotch phrase, meaning "concerning," 
"with regard to." It has been made English by the 

bcotch Novels ; and, as the Frenchman said — "If it be 

not, ought to be English." 

Note 4. Stanza xUx. 
The milliners who furnish " drapery misses. ' 
♦♦ Drapery misses " — This term is probably any thing 
»ow but a mystery. It was however almost so to me 
when I first returned from the East in 1811-1812. V. 
■neaas a jretty, a high-born, a fashionable young fe- 
male, well mstructed by her friends, and furnished by 
her milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
when married^ by the husband. The riddle was first 
<'a-H to me by a young and pretty heiress, on my prais- 



ing the "drapery" of an '■'■ untnchered" but "pretty vir- 
ginities" (like JNIrs. Anne Page) of the then day, which 
has now been some years yesterday : — she assured me 
that the thing was common in London ; and as her own 
thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simpUcity of 
array, put any suspicion in her own case out of the 
question, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. 
If necessary, authorities might be cited, in which easel 
could quote both " drapery" and the wearers. Let us 
hope, however, that it is now obsolete. 

Note 5. Stanza Ix. 
'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
Should let itself be snutf 'd out by an article. 

" Divinae particulam aurae." 



CANTO XII. 



Note 1. Stanza xix. 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie 
See Mitford's Greece. "Graecia Ferar." His great 
pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, 
spelling oddly, and writing quaintly; and, what is strange 
after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any 
language, and he is perhaps the best of all modem his- 
torians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but 
fair to state his virtues — learnmg, labour, research, 
wrath, and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a 
writer, because they make him write in earnest. 

Note 2. Stanza xxxvii. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure. 
This line may puzzle the commentators more tnan the 
present generation. 

Note 3. Stanza Ixxiii. 
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows. 
The Russians, as is well known, run out from then 
hot baths to plunge into the Neva : a pleasant practical 
antithesis, which it seems does them no harm. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxxii. 

The world to gaze upon those northern lights. 

For a description and print of this inhabitant of the 

polar region and native country of the aurora borealis 

see Parry's Voyage in search of a North-West Paa 

sage. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 
A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a statue 
of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I believe, a 
river in his pocket, with various other similar devices. 
But Alexander 's gone, and Athos remains, I trust, ere 
long, to look over a nation of freemen. 



CANTO XIII. 



Note 1. Stanza vii. 
Right honestly, "he liked an honest hater." 
"Sir, I like a good Ijatot."— See the Life of Di 
Johnson^ e!c. 



DON JUAN. 



'09 



Note 2. Stanza xxvi. 
Also there bin another pious reason. 
* With every thing that pretty bin. 
My lady sweet arise." — Shakspeare. 

Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
They and their bills, "Arcadians both," are ift. 
"Arcades ambo." 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxi. 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's. 
Salvator Rosa. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxii. 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish. 
If I errnot, "Your Dane" is one of lago's Catalogue 
of Nations "exquisite in their drinking." 

Note 6. Stanza Ixxviii. 
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura. 
In Assyria. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
"That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." 
"Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blas- 
phemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This 
dogma was broached to her husband — the best Chris- 
tian in any book. See Joseph Andrews^ in the latter 
chapters. 

Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it 

It would have taught him humanity at least. This 
sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst 
the novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports 
and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break 
their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art 
of angling, the cruellest, the coldest, and the stupidest 
of pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties 
of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of 
fish ; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the 
streams, and a single hite is wort-., to him more than all 
the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a 
rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery 
have somewhat of noble and perilous in ihem; evennet- 
nshing, trawling, etc., are more humane and useful — but 
angling ! — No angler can be a good man. 

" One of the best men I ever knew — as humane, del- 
icate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any 
in the world — was an angler: true, he angled with 
painted flies, and would have been incapable of the 
extravagances of I. Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
over the MS. — " Audi alteram partem " — I leave it to 
counterbalance my own observation. 



CANTO XIV. 



Note 1. Stanza xxxiii. 
And never craned, and made but few "faux pas.'''' 
Craning.— '■^To crane'''' is, or was, an expression used 
to denote a gentleman's stretching oi>^ bis neck over a 
3 N 2 



hedge, "to look before he leaned:" — a pause in hia 
" vaulting ambition," which in the field doth occasion 
some delay and execration in those who may be imme- 
diately behind the equestrian sceptic. " Sir, if you don't 
choose to take the leap, let me" — was a phrase which 
generally sent the aspirant on again ; and to good pur- 
pose : for though " the horse and rider " might fall, they 
made a gap, through which, and over him and his steed, 
the field might follow. 

Note 2. Stanza xlviii. 
Go to the coffee-house, and take anotlier. 

In Swift's or Horace Walpole's Letters^! think 
it is mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of a 
friend, was answered by a universal Pylades : " When 
I lose one, I go to the Saint James's Coffee-house, and 
take another." 

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind. 
Sir W. D. was a great gamester. C oming in one day to 
the club of which he was a member, he was observed to 
look melancholy. " What is the matter. Sir William ?" 
cried Hare, of facetious memory. "Ah !" replied Sir W. 
" I have just lost poor Lady D." " Last ! What ! at — 
Quinze or Hazard .?" was the consolatory rejoinder of 
the querist. 

Note 3. Stanza lix. 
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiem. 

The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on 
the latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects 
arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of 
politics : " You see by this, my son, with how little vpis* 
dom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 



CANTO XV. 



Note 1. Stanza xviii. 

And thou. Diviner still. 

Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken 

As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, 
I say, that I mean, by " Diviner still," Christ. If ever 
God was Man — or Man God — he was both. I never ar- 
raigned his creed, but the use — or abuse — made of it. 
Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to sanction 
Negi-o Slavery, and INIr. Wilberforce had little to say in 
reply. And was Christ crucified, that black men might 
be scourged? If so, he had better been born a Mulatto, 
to give both colours an equal chance of freedom, or at 
least salvation. 

Note 2. Stanza xxxv. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage 

In his harmonious settlement. 

This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 
" Shakers" do; but lays such restrictions upon it as pre- 
vent more than a certain quantum of births within a 
certain number of years ; which births (as Mr. Hulme 
observes) generally arrive " in a little flock like those of 
a farmer's lambs, all within the same month perhaps." 
These Harmonists (so called from the name of their set- 
tlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishin?, 
pious, and quiet people. See the various recent writers 
on America. 



710 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Note 3. Stanza xxxyiii. 
Nor canvass what "so eminent a hand" meant. 
Jacob Tonson according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed 
to call his writ ;rs " able pens" — "persons of honour," 
and especially "eminent hands." Vide correspond- 
ence, etc., etc. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixvi. 
While great Lucullus' robe triomphale muffles — 
(There 's /ame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with trufBes 

A dish " a la Lucullus." This hero, who conquered 
the East, has left his more extended celebrity to thj 
transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into 
Europe) and the nomenclature of some very good dishesj 
— and I am not sure that (barring indigestion) he has 
not done more service to mankind by his cookery than 
by his conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a 
bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to earn celeb- 
rity from both. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixviii. 
But even sans " confitures," it no less true is. 
There's pretty picking in those "petits poits." 

" Petits puits d'amour garnis de confitures," a classical 
and well-known dish for part of the flank of a second 
conrse. 

Note 6. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
For that with me 's a " sine qua.' ' 
Subauditur "JVora," omitted for the sake of euphony. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very 
Like those of the Philosopher of Malmsbury. 

Hobbes ; who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
compUment to the souls of other people as to decline 
their visits, of which he had some apprehension. 



CANTO XVI. 



Note 1. Stanxa x. 

If from a shell-fish or from cochineal 

The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 

from a shell-fish, or from cochineal, or from kermes, 

IS still an article of dispute ; and even its colour — some 

say purple, others scarlet: I say nothing. 

Note 2. Stanza xliii. 
For a spoil'd carpet — but the " Attic Bee " 
Was much consoled by his own repartee, 

f think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, 
with — " Thus I trample on the pride of Plato !" — "With 
greater pride," as the other replied. But as carpets 
are meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably 
misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a 
lable-cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece 
nf furniture. 

Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
With " Tu mi chamases " from Portingale, 
To soodie our ears, lest Italy should fail. 

I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 



somewhat surfei'.ed with a similar dbplay from foreign 
parts, did rovher indecoro-jsl/ break through the ap- 
plauses of f.n ir,te'.ii^er.< uw^ieACQ — intelligent, I mean, 
as to music,~-fDr the wcrda, besides being in recondite 
language's (it was some years before the peace, ere all 
the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian) — 
wei e r.orely disguised by the performers: — this mayoress, 
I say, broke out with, " Rot your Italianos ! for my 
part, I loves a simple ballat !" Rossini will go a good 
way to bring most people to the same opinion some 
day. Who would imagine that he was to be the suc- 
cessor of Mozart ? However, I state this with diffidence, 
as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, 
and of much of Rossini's: but we may say, as the con- 
noisseur did of painting, in the Vicar of Wake^eld, 
"that the picture would be better painted if the painter 
had taken more pains." 

Note 4. Stanza lix. 
For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
" Ausu Romano, aere Veneto " is the inscription (and 
well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls between 
the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a republican 
work of the Venetians ; the inscription, I believe, im- 
perial, and inscribed by Napoleon. 

Note 5. Stanza Ix. 
"Untying" squires "to fight against the churches." 
" Though ye untie the winds, and bid them fight 
Against the churches." — Macbeth. 

Note 6. Stanza xcvii. 
They err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility. 
In French "mobilite." I am not sure that mobility 
is English ; but it is expressive of a quality which rathei 
belongs to other climates, though it is sometimes seen 
to a great extent in our own. It may be defined as an 
excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions — at 
the same time without losing the past ; and is, though 
sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most 
painful and unhappy attribute. 

Note 7. Stanza cu. 
Draperied her form with curious felicity. 
" Curiosa felicitas." — Petronius Arbiter, 

Note 8. Stanza cxiv. 
A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 
See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer — "Karl— Karl 
— was — wait wolt mich?" 

Note 9. Stanza cxx. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity! 

" Shadows to-night 
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers," etc., etb 
Pec Richard III. 



711 



[T7ie following productions of Lord Byron'' s pen were not published dming his life; 
and, with the exception of two or three of them which were attributed to him upon tcncertain 
grounds, they have made their appearance, for the first time, in Mr. Murray^s recent and 
authoritative edition of the Life and Writings of Byron. From that work they have been 
carefully selected, and added to the present volume, with a view of rendering it in eve'^y 
respect a complete edition of Byron's Poetical Works.'] 



i^tut^ from ^wmt. 



BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND 
INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 



" Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
Reddere quse ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

HOR. De Arte Poet. 304, 305. 

■ Rhymes are difficult thin;s~thev are stubborn things, sir." 

FIELDING'S Amelia, Vol. iii. Book 5. Chap. 5. 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 12th, ISll. 
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvas with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush. 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail? 
Or low* Dubost (as once the world has seen) 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen? 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists know. 
May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams- 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A laboqr'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends: 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down. 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain ; 

riumano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas, 
Uiidique collatis membris, ut tJirpiter atrum 
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne; 
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici ? 
Credite, Pisones, iste tabiils fore librum 
Persimilem, cujus, velut fegri somnia, vanaB 
Fingentur species, ut' nee pes, nee caput uni 
Reddatur forms. Pictoribus atque poetis 
Q,uidlibet audendi semper fuit cequa potestas. 
Scimus, et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicis- 

sim: 
Sed non ut placidis coeant immitia ; non ut 
Serpentes avibns geminentur, tigribus agnj. 

Incoeptis gravibus pleriimque et magna professi 
Purpureas, late qui splendeat, unus et alter 



* In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad wherever there 
ire Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's caricature of IVIr. 

H , and the consequent action, &c. The circumstance is probably too 

wdl known to require further roHunent. 



The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls. 

King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and oid 

walls: 
Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames.f 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; 
You plan a rase— it dwindles to a pot; 
Then glide down Grub-street— fasting and forgot; 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till — true. 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
I labour to be brief— become obscure; 
One falls while following elegance too fast; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast; 
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly. 
He spins his subject to satiety; 
Absurdly varjiiig, he at last engraves 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves! 

Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice. 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
None are complete, all wanting in some part. 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 

Assuiter pannus; cum lucus et ara Dianee, 

Et prnperantis aquaB per amcenos ambitus agros, 

Aut flumen Rhenuni, aut pluvius describitur arcuf 

Sed nunc non erai his locus; et fortasse cupressuia 

Scis siraulare: quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes 

Navibus. eere dato qui pingitur? ampora ecopit 

Institui : currente rota cur urceus exit? 

Denique sit quod vis, fimplex duntaxat et unitm. 

Ma.xima pars vatum, pater, et juvenes patre dzgru 
Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro, 
Obscurus fio: sectantem levia, nervi 
Deficiunt animique: professus grandia, turget: 
Serpit humi, tutus nimium, timidusque procelloB . 
Q.ui variare cupit rem prodigiaHter unam, 
Delphinum sylvis appingit fluctibus aprum. 

In vitium ducit culpfe fuga, si caret arte. 
iEmilium circa ludum faber unus et ungues 
Exprimet, et molles imitabiti;^ stre capilloa ■ 



t "Where pure description hsM the place o^ i 



712 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



For galligaskins Slowshears is your man, 

Cut coats must claim another artisan.* 

Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 

As Vulcan s feet to bear Apollo's frame; 

Or, with a fair complexion, to exi)ose 

Black eyes, black ringlets, but— a bottle nose! 

Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength, 
And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 
Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
What weight j'our shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await tho poet, skilful in his choice; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line ; 
This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As fPitt has furnish'd us a word or two. 
Which lexicographers declined to do ;) 
So you indeed, with care,— (but be content 
To take this license rarely)~may invent. 
New words find credit in these latter days. 
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
If you can add a little, say why not, 
As well as William Pitt and Walter Scott? 
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 
Enrich'd our Island's ill-united tongues; 
'Tis then— and shall be— lawful to present 
Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees. 
So fade expressions which in season please. 

Infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum 
Nesciet. Hunc ego me, si quid componere curem. 
Non magis esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso, 
Spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo. 

Sumite matoriem vestris, qui scribitis, equam 
Viribus; et versate diu quid ferre recusent 
Q,uid valeant humeri. Cui lecta potentererit res, 
Nee facundia deseret hunc nee lucidus ordo. 

Ordinis hrec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor, 
Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici 
Pleraque difFerat, et prsesens in tempus omittat ; 
Hoc aniet, hoc spernat promissi carminis auctor. 

In \erbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis: 
Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
Reddiderit junctura novum. Si forte necesse est 
Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum, 
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis 
Continget ; dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter; 
Et nova factaque nuper habcbunt verba fidem, si 
GrsECO fonte cadant, parce detorta. Quid autem 
Ca;cilio Plautoque dabit Rornanus, ademptum 
Virgilio Varioque? ego cur, acquirere pauca 
Si possum, invideor; cum lingua Catonis et Enni 
Sermonein patrium ditaverit, et nova rerum 
Nomina protulerit? Licuit, semperque licebit, 
Siirnatum praisente nota producere nomen. 

Ut silvffi foliis pronos mutantur in annos; 
Prima cadunt : ita verborum veins interit setas, 
Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata, vigentque. 
Oebemur morti nos nostraque: sive receptus 



Mere commrtB mortals were commonly content with one tailorand with 
me bill, but the more particular genUemen found it impossible to confide 
heir lower earments to the makers of their body clothes. I speak of the be- 
(iDDiii; of 1809: what reform may have since taken place I neither know 
ncr desire to know. 

* llr. Pitt WIS liberal in his additions to our parliamenfarv tongue, as 
oav be. seen in many publications, particularly the Edinburgh Review. 



And we and ours, alas! are due to fate, 

And works and words but dwindle to a date. 

Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls, 

Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals; 

Though swamps subdued, and marshes dr&Ln'd, sustain 

The heavy ploughshare and the yellow gtBin, 

And rising ports along the busy shore 

Protect the vessel from old ocean's roar, 

All, all must perish; but, surviving last. 

The love of letters half preserves the past. 

True, some decay, yet not a few revive ;f 

Though those shall sink, which now appear tc thrive. 

As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 

Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels wage, 
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page? 
His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel, rhyme or blank? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfi.=;h spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope. St. Patrick's dean.§ 

Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
Though mad Almanzor rhj-med in Drj^den's days. 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays; 
While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and j)un\\ in very middling prose. 
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in vprse. 
But so Thalia pleases to appear. 
Poor virgin! damn'd some twenty times a yearl 

W^hate'er the scene, let this advice have weight:— 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 

Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet. 
Regis opus; sterilisve diu palus, aptaque rerais 
Vicinas urbes alii, et grave sentit aratrum: 
Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus amnis, 
Doctus iter melius; mortalia facta peribunt: 
Nedum sermonum stet honos, et gratia vivas. 
Multa renascentur, qute jam cecidere; cadentque, 
Q,uaB nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus; 
Q.uem penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma loquendi 

Res gostse regumque ducumque et tristia bella, 
Q,i!o scribi possent numero monstravit Homerus. 

Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum; 
Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos. 
Q,u)s tanien exiguos clegos emiserit auctor, 
Grammatici certant. et adhuc sub judice lis est. 

Archilocum proprio rabies armavit iambo; 
Hunc socci cepere pedem grandesque cothurni, 
Alteriiis aptum sermonibus, et populares 
Vincentem ttrepitus, et natum rebus agendis. 

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum 
Et pugilem victorem, et equum certamine primura 
Et juvenum curas et libera vina referre. 

Descriptas servare vices operumque colores. 
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poeta salutor? 
Cur nescire pudens prave, quam discere malo? 

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult 
Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socco 



X Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at present in a< 
much request as old wine or new speeches. In fact, this is the mil.enniuiii 
of black-letler: thanks to our Hebers, Webers, and Scotts ! 

§ Mac Flecnoe, the Dunciad, and all Swift's lampooning ballads. WhaS 
ever their other works may be, these originated in personal fetiings, and 
angr>- retort on unworthy rivals ; and though the ability of these satires ele. 
vatcs the poetical, their poignancy detracts~from the personal cbxracter cf 
the writers. 

II With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence oi*p«n*, they have 
Aristotle on their side, who permits them to or^'ors. and gives them coase 
quence by a grave disquisition. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



713 



At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 

4.nd brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 

Vor unregarded will tbo act pass by 

Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 

Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 

When common prose will serve for common things; 

.Ai'd I'.vely Hal resigns heroic ire. 

To 'hollowing Hotspur"* and the sceptred sire. 

'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art. 
To polish poems; they must touch the heart: 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 
Coiiimand your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — anything but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave. 
Before I shed them, lei me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Luird by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Bad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye; 
For nature form'd at first the inward man. 
And actors copy nature— when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound. 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 't is said or sung. 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
\Vho, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
At least in theatres) with common sense; 
J'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugh with anything but wit. 

Dignis carminibus narrari coRna Thyestfc. 
Singula quaeque locum teneant sortita decenter. 
Interdum tamen et vocem comoedia toUit, 
Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore: 
Et trasricus plerumque dolet serinone pedestri. 
Teiephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul, uterque 
Projicit ampullas, et sesquipedalia verba; 
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. 

Non satis est p\i!chra essepoemata; dulcia sunto, 
Et quocunque volent, animuiii auditoris agunto. 
Ut ridentibus arrident, ita (lentibus adflent 
Humani vultus; si vis me flere dolendum est 
Frimum ipsi tibi ; tunc tua me infortunia Itedent. 
Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loqueris, 
Aut dormitabo, aut ridebo: tristia mcestum 
Vultum verba decent; iratum, plena minarum; 
Ludentem, lasciva ; severum, seria dictu. 
Format-enim natura prius non intus ad omnem 
Fortunarum habitum ; juvat, aut impellit ad iram! 
Aut ad humum mcErore gravi deducit, et angit ; 
Post effort animi motus interprete lingua. 
Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta, 
Romani tollent equites, peditesque cachinnum. 

Intererit multuin, Davusne loquatur an heros; 
Matiirusne senex, an adhuc florente juventa 
Forvidus; an matrona potens, and sedula nutrix; 
Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli ; 
Colchus an Assyrius; Thebis nutritus, an Argis. 

Ant famam cequere, aut sibi convenientia finge. 
Scriptor honoratum si forte reponis Achillem ; 
Impiger, iracundus, ine-%orabilis, acer. 
Jura neget sibi nata, nihiV non arroget armis. 
Sit Medea ferox invictaque, flebilis Ino ; 
Perfidus Ixion; lo vaga ; tristis Orestes; 
Si quid inexpertum scenae committis, et audes 
Personam forinare novam; servetur ad imum 
Q,uali3 ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 

Difficile est proprie communia dicere; tuque 
Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, 
(iuam si proferres ignota indictaque primus. 
Publica materies privati juris erit, si 
Nee circa vilem patulumque moraberis orbem ; 
Sec verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus 
iiiterpres, nee desilies imitator in arctum 



* " Ajad in his ear I'll hollow, Morlimer ;"— 1 Henry IV, 



To skilful writers it will much import, 
W^hence spring their scenes, from common life orcrirl 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a "Lying Valet," or a "Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering "Peregrine," or plain "John Bull;" 
All persons please, when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene: 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law: 
If female furies in your scliLine are plann'd, 
Macbeth"s fierce dame is ready to your hand; 
For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
Constance, King Riclmrd, Hamlet, and the Devill 
But if a new design you dare essay, 
.And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past, 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale; 
.'\nd yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err. 
Yet copy not too closely, but record. 
More justly, thought for thought than word for word; 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways. 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lea^ 
To tremble on the nod of all who read. 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls. 
Beware — for God's sake don't begin like Bowles !f 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
And pray, what fellows from this boiling brain? — 
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice. 
Whose epic mountains never fail ^n mice ! 

Unde pedem proferre pudor vetet, aut operis lex. 
Nee sic incij)ies, us scriptor Cyclicus olim : 
" Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum." 
Quid dignum tanto feret hie promissor hiatu 
Parturiunt montes: nascetur ridiculus mus. 
Uuanto rectius hie, qui nil molitur inepte ! 
"Die mihi, Musa, virum captce post tempora Trojs 
Q,ui mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes." 
Non fiimum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem 
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat, 
Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdira. 
Nee rediUim Diomedis ab interitii Meleagri, 
Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 



t About two years ago a young man, named Townsend, was announced 
by Iklr. Cumbp.rland (in a review since deceased) as being engaged in an 
epic poem lo be entitled '• Armageddon." The plan and specimen promisa 
much ; but I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend nor his friends, by recom- 
mending to his attention the lines of Horace to which these rhymes allude. 
If Mr. Townsend succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to hope, 
how much will the world be indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bringing him 
before the public 1 Eut till that eventful day arrives, it may be" doubted 
«h ether the premature display of his plan (sublime as the ideas confesseulv 
arej has not, by raising ejpectat ion too h'gh. or diminishing curiosity, by de 
veloping his argument, rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. Town 
send's future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depre- 
ciate by the humble tribute of my praise) and Sir. Townsend must not sup- 
pose me actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author 
all the success he can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic po 
etry weighed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with 'Southev, Cottle, 
Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy. WilKie, Pje, and all the "dull of past 
and present days." Even if he is not a Milton,'he may be better than Slack' 
more; if not a Homer, an Anthiiachiis. I should deem myself presumpti- 
ous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it not addressed to one st;J< 
younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest difficulties to encounter: bet in 
conquering them he will find employment ; in havjig conquered them, hia 
reward. I know too well " the scribbler's scoff, the critic's contumely," aud 
I am afraid time will teach Mr. Townsend to knew them better. Those who 
succeed, and those who do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard to saj 
which have most of it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be frrim 
eitvy:—\\s will soon know mankind well enougn not tc attribnte this ex 
pressior to malice. 



714 



BYRON'S WOUKS. 



Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 

The teniper'd warblings of his master lyre; 

Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 

" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 

He speaks, but as his subject swells along. 

Earth, heaven, and hades echo with the song. 

Still to the midst of things he hastens on. 

As if we witnessd all already done ; 

Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 

T : raise the subject, or adorn the scene; 

Gives, as each page improves upon the sight. 

Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness— light ; 

And truth and fiction with suc^i art compounds. 

We know not where to fix their several bounds. 

If you would please the public, deign to hear 

What soothes the many-iieaded monster's ear; 

If your heart triumph when the hands of all 

Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall. 

Deserve those plaudits— study nature's page, 

And sketch the striking traits of every age; 

While varying man and varying years unfold 

Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told. 

Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, 

His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays; 

Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 

And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens 1 

Behold him freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er *Virgirs devilish verses and his own, 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
He flies from T— v— I's frown to "Fordham's Mews:" 
(Unlucky T— v— 1 ! doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils and by bears j,) 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions, threat in vain, 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Roush with his elders, with his equals rash, 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to naught— save hazard and a whore. 
Yet cursing both— for both have made him sore ; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease. 
The p-x becomes his passage to degrees); 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term aw^ay, 
And, uiiexpell'd perhaps, retires M. A. 
Master of arts! as hells and clubsX proclaim. 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name I 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank. 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 

Semper ad eventum festinat; et in medias res 
Non secus ac notas, anditorem rapit, et quae 
Desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit: 
At(iue ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
Prirao ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum. 

Tu, quid ego et populus rnecum desideret, audi. 
Si plausoris eges aulaea manentis, et usque 
Sessuri, donee cantor, Vos plaudite, dicat; 
yEtatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores, 
Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annls. 
Reddere aui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo 
Signat niHiiLim; gestit paribus colludere, et irara 
Collisit ac ponit temere, et mutatur in horas. 
Imberbis juvcnis, tandem custode remoto, 

* Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the blood, used to fline 
nvay Vir'^il in his ecstacy of admiration, and say, " the book had a devil." 
Now, such a character as I am copyin? would probably fiing it away also, 
Cut ralher wish that the devil had the book; not from any dislike to the 
^(■t, but a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed the public school 
priiance of " long and short" is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for 
the reE.'if-.s if a man's life, and, perhaps, so far may be ac advantage. 

" 'nfandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." I dare say Mr. T — v — 1 
(Townoui I mean no aftront) will understand me; and it is no matter whe- 
ther any one else does or no. — To the above events, " quasque ipse miserrima 
,Ai et quorum pars magna fui," all times and terms bear tesiimony. 

J 'Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, and are cheat- 
«J a good d(-a.. " Club," a pleasant purgatory, where you lose.more, and 
V* «(!' »u90o»ed to oe cheated at all 



Sits in the senate; gets a son and heir; 
Sends hira to Harrow, for himself was there 
Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to ch?ei 
His son's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer! 

Manhood declines— age palsies every limb; 
He quits the scene— or else the scene quits him; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves; 
Counts cent, per cent., and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy. 
Complete in all life's lessons— but to die; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please. 
Commending every time, save times like these; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot! 

But from the drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you lesa 
Though women weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'A 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, I here am French — 
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show; 
We hate the carnage while we see the trirk, 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours, or nature bear? 
A§halter'd heroine Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes, 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief. 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows! what may not authors do, 
Whose postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines blue? 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 

Gaudet equis canibusque, et aprici gramine campi; 
Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper, 
Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus aeris, 
Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata relinquere pernix 

Conversis studiis, oetas animusque virilis 
duaerit opes, et amicitias, inservit honori; 
Comniisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret. 

Multa senem conveniunt incommoda ; vel quod 
Q,iia?rit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti; 
Vel quod res omnes timide gelideque ministrat, 
Dilator, spe longus, iners, avidusque futuri; 
Difticilis, qujerulus, laudator temporis acti 
Se puero, castigator ce^isorque minoruin. 
^lulta ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, 
Multa recedentes adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque virilcs. 
Semper in adjunctis, tevoque niorabimur aptis. 

Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur. 



§ " Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring round her pet^i. ^ 
the audience cried out 'Murder !' and she was obliged to be carried off the 
s'age."— 5oiiteJi'x Life of Johnson. 

11 In the postscript to the " Castle Spectre" Mr. Lewis tells us, that though 
blacks were unknown in England at the period of his action, yet he bu 
made the anachronitm to set off the scene: and if he could hu.ve producea 
the effect "by making his heroine bluc"-I quote bT -"blue he wouW hawr 
ra^de btr !" 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



715 



Of all the monsl/ous things I'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 
VVhir.h Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends! 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread; 
In all, iniquity is grown so nice, 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with the orchestras he pays to hear, 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore. 
His anguish doubling by his own "encore;" 
Squeezed in "Fop's Alley," jostled by the beaux. 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor taste of ease 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release; 
Why this, and more, ho suffers — can ye guess? — 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress! 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools 
Give us but fiddlers, and they 're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk* 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleas'd with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known, 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan. 
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;t 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place. 
Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 

Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
Mad wag! who pardon'd none, nor spared t>e best. 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers. 
Arras nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers: 
" Alas, poor Yorick !" now for ever mute ! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We SMile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
*Vhen "Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And AutUjf struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschusl with whom once more I hope to sit 
Vnd smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem 
Q,uam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Non tamen intus 
Digna geri, promes in scenam ; multaque tolles 
Ex oculis, quffi mox narret facundia praesens. 
Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet; 
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus; 
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. 
Q,uodcunque ostendis mihi sic, mcredulus odi. 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 
Fabula, qufe posci vult, et spectata reponi. 
Nee deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
Inciderit. * * * 

Ex noto fictum carmen sequar. ut sibi quivis 
Speret idem: sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem: tantum series juncturaque pollet ; 
Pantum de medio sumtis accedit honoris. 



*" The first theatrical representations, entitled ' Mj'sferies and Morali- 
ties,' were generally enacted at Christmas, by monks (as the only persons 
who could read), and latterly by the clergy and students of the universities. 
The dramatis personse were usually Adam, Pater. Ccelestis, Faith, Vice,'' 
&c. kc.—P'ide Warton's History of English Poetry. 

t Benvolio does not bet ; but even- man who maintains race-horses is a 
promoter of all the concomitant evil's of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a lit- 
tle pliarisaical. Is it an exculpation? I think not. I never yet heard a 
trawd Braised for chastity because shs herself did not comnJt forpication. 



Yes, friend! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell, 
And bear Swift's motto, "Vive la bagatelle!" 
Which charm'd our days in each ^gean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past. 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato'sJ bed. 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let hd bend our eyes. 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies; 
Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance! 
Yet §Chesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs 
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays; 
Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains. 
And damning dullness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act ! again let Humour roam 
Wild o'er the stage — we 've time for tears at home > 
Let " Archer" plant the horns on " Sullen's" brows 
And "Estifania" gull her " Copper|j" spouse; 
The moral's scant — but that may be excused, 
Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; 
Ay, but Mackheath's example — psha! — no morel 
It fonn'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before; 
And spite of puritans and Collier's curse,ir 
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men! 
A^or burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 
But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal! 
Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal? 
For times of fire and fagot let them hope; 
Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze. 
So would nev/ sects on newer victims gaze. 
E'en now th^- songs of Solyma begin ; 
Faith cants, «>erplex'd apologist of sin! 
While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, 
And Simeon kicks w here **Baxter only " shoves." 

Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce. 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let pastoral be dumb; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope? 
Yet his and Philips' faults, of different kind. 
For art too rude, for nature too refined, 

Silvis deducti caveant, me judice, Fauni, 
Ne velut innati triviis, ac pene forenses, 
Aut nimium tenens juvenentur versibus unquam. 
Aut immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta. 
Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, et res! 
Nee, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis emtor, 
iEquis accipiunt animis, donantve corona. 

Syllaba longa brevi subjecta, vocatur iambus, 
Pes citus: unde etiam trimetris accroscere jussit 
Nomen iambeis, cum senos redderet ictus. 
Primus ad extremum similis sibi : non ita pridem, 



i Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of Sophron was found th« 
day he died. — Vide BartheUmi, De Pauw, OT Diogenes Lxrtiiis, if agiee- 
able. De Pnuw calls it a jest book. — Cumberland, in his Observer, terms it 
moral, like thes.iyings of " Publius Cyrus." 

§ His speech on the licensing act is one of his most eloquent efforts. 

11 Michael Perez, the " Copper Captain," la ' ^ule a Wife and haTO s 
Wife." 

H Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, &.C. on the subject if tto 
drama, is too v\ell known to require further comment. 

** '' Baxter's Shove to heavy-a — d Christians." The veritable *itie 01 t 
book once in good repute, and likely enough to be so agam. — Mr. Simeon ii 
the very bully of beliefs, and castisator of'" good works." He is ably rip» 
ported by John .Stickles, a labourer in the same vin''y-ard • — but 1 sr.v is- 
more, for according to Johnny in full congregation, " No .V.j ti jar tkxm 



iO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In/truct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulsrar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste; 
Tiie dirty language, and the noisome jest. 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight! 

Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made them pass, 
Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hubibras ! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line. 
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
FormM, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not. from a theme of weight. 
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire— irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his g'owing thoughts confine. 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line! 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect. 
To gain tiie paltry sufi'rage of ''correct?" 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase. 
To fly from error, not to merit praise? 

Ye who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste; 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules. 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
Tliough you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers in default of ears. 

Tardior ut paulo graviorque veniret ad aures, 
Spondeos stabiles in jura pa tern a recepit 
Commodus et patiens ; non ut de sede secunda 
Cederet aut quarta socialiter. Ilic et in Acci 
Nobilibus trimetris apparet rarus, et Enni. 
In scenammissos magno cum pondere versus, 
Aut operce celeris nimiuin, curaque carentis, 
Aut igaoratEB premit artis crimine turpi. 

Non quivis videt immodulata poemata judex; 
St data Romanis venia est indigna poetis. 
Idcircone vager, scribamque licenter? an omnes 
Visurcs peccata putem mea; tutus, et intra 
Spem venise cautus ? vitavi denique culpam, 
Non laudem merui. Vos exemplaria Graeca 
Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. 
At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros et 
Laudavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque, 
Ke. dicam stulte, mi rati; si modo ego et vos 
t^cimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto, 
Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. 

Ifinotum tragicae genus invenisse Camenas 
Dir.itur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
UUCP, canerant agerentque peruncti fiecibus ora 
Post hunc personiP. dallseque repertor honescje 
*schylu.3 et modicis iustravit pulpita tignis, 
Gl aocuil magnumque ioqui, nitique cnthurno. 

SutCessit vetus hi? comoedia. non sine multa 



In sooth I do not know or greatly care 
To learn who our first English strollers were; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, 
Our muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart. 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days. 
There's pomp enough, if little else, in plays; 
Nor will INIelpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws: 
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest.j 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass naught untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse, 
And leave to minds which never dare ii.vent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame. 
If all our bards, more patient of delay. 
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way? 

Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
O'erlhrow whole quartos with their quires of fault* 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail. 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail! 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad! 

But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth, 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth: 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please. 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use; 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lake. 
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake;* 
Then print your book, once more return to town. 
And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 

Am I not wise if such some poets' plight, 
To purge in spring (like Bayes) before I write? 
If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style; 

Laude; sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
Dignam lege regi ; lex est accepta, chorusque 
TiH-piter ohticuit, sublato jure nocendi. 

Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetae ; 
Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Graeca 
Aussi deserere, et ceiebrsere domestica facta 
Vel qui prate xtas, vel qui docuere logatas. 
Nee virtute fore«t clarisve pntentius armis. 
Q.uam lingua, Latium, si non offenderet unum^ 
qucnque poetarum limre labor, et mora. Vos, 6 
Pompilius sanguis, carmen rcprehendite, quod non 
Multa dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
Prffisectum decies non castigavit ad unguem, 

Ingenium misera quia foftunatius arte 
Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
Democritus; bona pars non ungues ponere curat 
Non barbam : secreta petit loca, balnea vitat. 
Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poets, 
Si tribus Anticyris caput insanabrle nonquam 
Tonsori Licino commiserit. O ego laB\Tis, 
Qui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam ! 
Non alius faceret meliora poemata: verum 
Nil tanti est: ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 



* As famius a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid, and may, Ilk* 
him. be one day a senator, bavin? a better qualification than one half cf th 
heads he crops, viz. — independence. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



717 



But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
[ cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
I'll labour gratis as a grinder's wheel, 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel, 
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song. 
And from my own example, what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
•Tis just as well to think before you write; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read. 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
To friend and country, and to pardon foes; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are. 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize ; 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told. 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 
Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To " long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
"A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take 
Two thirds, how much will the remainder make? — 
" A groat." — " Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum ! 
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
vVho hides all verses from his children's sight; 

Reddere qua; ferrum va'et, exsors ipsa secandi: 
Munus et ofllcium, nil scribens ipse, docebo ; 
Unde parentur opes; quid alat formctque poetam; 
Q,uid deceat, quid non ; quo virtus, quo ferat error. 

Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons. 
Rem tibi Socraticce poterunt ostendere charta; : 
Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur. 
Q.ui didicit patriae quid debeat, et qiuid amicis; 
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes ; 
(iuod sit conscript!, quod judicis officium; quae 
Partes in bellum niissi ducis ; ille profecto 
Reddere personae scit convenientia cuique. 
Respicere exemplar vitce morumque jubebo 
Doctum imitatorem, et vivas hinc ducere voces. 

Tnterdum speciosa locis, morataque recte 
Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
Valdius oblectat pnpulum, meliusque moratur, 
Quam versus iriopes rerum nugoeque canorae. 

Graiis ingenium. Grails dedit ore rotundo 
Musa loqui, prater laudem nullius avaris, 
Romani piieri longis rationibus assem 
Discunt in partes centum diducere: dicat 
Filius Albini, Si de qiiincunce remota est 
Uncia, quid superaf poterat dixisse — Triens. Eu ! 
Rem poteris servare tuani. Redit uncia: quid fit? 
Semis. An htec animos aerugo et cura peculi 
Cum semel imbiierit, speramus carmina fingi 
Posse linendci cedro, et levi servanda cupresso? 

Aut prodesfee volunt, ant delectare poet re ; 
Aut simul el Jiicunda et iponea dicere vitfe. 
Cluidquid prrpcipips. esto brevis: u* cito dicta 
Percipiant aMinii dofiles. teueantque fidolps. 
vimm" supervacinim pl"no de p^Ttor." inanat. 



For poets (says this sage, and many more,*) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
Discovers little silver and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Ts poor as Irus,j o? i,n Irish mine, J 

Two objects a', a ays should the poet move. 
Or one or both,— to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line; 
Redundance places memory on the rack,' 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth: 
Expect no credit for too wond'rous tales. 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales! 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense, 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once:— that bard for all js fit 
Who mingles well instruction wilh his wit; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erfiow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass); 
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 

But every thing has faults, nor is 't unknown 
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call 
With all his best endeavours, only squall; 
Dogs blink their cover, flints withhold their spark, 
ind double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark.§ 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two; 
But pardon equally to books or men. 
The slips of human nature, and *^e pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
Despises all advice too much to mend. 
But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let liHavard's fate o'ortake him, who, for once 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce: 

Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris: 
Nee quodcunqne volet, poscat sibi fabula credi: 
Neu pransa3 Lamis vivum puerum extrahat alvo. 

Centurice seniorum agitant expertia frugis : 
Celsi praetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes. 
Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo. 
Hie meret ara liber Sosiis ; hie et mare transit. 
Et longum noto scriptori prorogat sevum. 

Suntdelicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus; 
Nam neque chorda sonum reddit quem vult manus 

et mens, 
Poscentique gravem persaepe remittit acutum; 
Nee semper feriet quodcunqne minabitur arcus. 
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucia 
Ofl^endar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit. 



* I have not the original by me, but ihe Italian translation runs as follows • 
— "E nna cnsa a mio credere molto stranaganle.che ua padredestidcri. oper 
metta, die suo figliuolo colliri e perfezioui questo lalento." A little further 
on : " Si Irovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' argento." — Edl^ 
cazione dei FanciuUi de Signnr Locke. Venetian edition. 

t " Iro paiiperior ;" this is the same begger who bored with Ulysses for s 
pound of kid's fry, which he lost, and hail a dozen teeth besides. — See Odys 
sey, b. 18. 

i The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yieldsjust ore enough to swe-* 
by, or gild a bad guinea. 

§ As Mr. Tope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom hewaj.uiid«* 
great obi iera' ions — "Jyid Ffonter (damn him '.) calk" — it may be presumed 
that any bndy r>r any thing may be damned in verse by poetical license; uid., 
in case of acciden', I beg leave to plead so illustrious a precedent. 

I! Fnr the s'orv of Billy H.ivard's frajedv, see " Da% es's Life of Git 
rifk." I believe it is '• Rejulus."' or " Charles the First.'- -The moment i» 
was knn\<n to he hi=, llie !hf aire ihlnr"*^ acd "-e t'^-ksellei refused to f «» 
the cusloiiiary sum fortha copyrignt 






718 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



At first none deem'd it his, but when his name 
Announced the fact— what then ?— it lost its fame. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand; 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view. 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 
Hath led to listen to the muse's voice, 
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise; 
Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed! 
In these, plain common sense will travel far; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar: 
But poesy between the best and worst 
No medium knows ; you must be last or first : 
For middling poets' miserable volumes, 
Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jefirey! — as that sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel. 
When Southerns writhe upon their critic wheel. 
Or mild Eclectics,* when some, worse than Turks, 
Would rob poor Faith to decorate "good works." 

Aut humana parum cavit natura. Q,uid ergo ? 
Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque, 
Ciuamvis est monitus, venia caret ; ut citharcEdus 
Ridetur, chorda qui semper aberrat eadem : 
Sic mihi, qui multum cessat, fit Choerilus ille, 
Q,uem bis terve bonum cum risu miror; et idem 
Indignor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus 
Verum operi longo fast est obrepere somnum. 

Ut pictura, poesis: et erit quae, si propius stes, 
Te capict magis; et quaedam, si longius abstes : 
Htec amat obscurum; volet htec sub luce videri, 
Judicis argutum quce non formidat acumen : 
Hfec placuit semel ; haec decies tepetita placebit. 

O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna 
Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis; hoc tibi dictum 
Tolie memor: certis medium et tolerabile rebus 
Recte concedi : consultus juris, et actor 
<7ausarum mediocris abest virtute diserti 
Messals, nee scit quantum Cassellius Aulus: 
Sed tamen in pretio est: mediocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae. 
Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors. 
Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle papaver 
Offendunt, poterat duci quia ccena sine istis 
Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandis. 
Si paulum a summo decessit, vergit ad imum. 

Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis, 
Indoctusque pilae, piscive, trochive, quiescit, 
Ne spissoB risum tollant impune coronae: 



» To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return thanki for the 
fervour of that charity which in 1809 induced them to express a hope, that a 
thing then published by rue misht lead to certain consequences, which, al- 
though natural enoush, surely came but rashly from reverend lips. I refer 
them to their own pages, « here (hey congratulated themselves on the pros- 
pect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from which some great good 
was to accrue, provided one orbolh were knocked on the head. Having 
survived two years and a half those '-Elegies" which they were kindly pre- 
paring to review, I have no peculiar gusto to give them " so joyful a trou- 
ble," except, indeed, " upon compulsion, Hal ;" but if. as David says in the 
"Rivals," it should come to " bloody sword and gun fighting," we " won't 
run, will we. Sir Lucius?" I do not know what I had done to these Ec- 
lectic gentlemen : my works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces 
like Asrag, if it should seem meet unto them; but why they should be in 
toch a'hurry to kill off their author, I am ignorant. " The race is not 
always to the swift nor :he battle to the strong :'" and now, as these Chris- 
lians'have " smote mt on one cheek," I hold them up the other ; and in re- 
turn for their good wishes, give them an opportunity of repeating them. Had 
»ny other set of men expressed such sentiments, I should have smiled, and 
■eft them to the 'recording angel," but from the pbarisees of Christianity 
^cency mi»ht be expec'ed. I can assure these brethren, that, publican and 
•inner as I am, I would not have treated "mine enemy's dog thus." To 
ihow tnem the superiority of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend 
Messrs. Sime.in or Ramsd:;n should be engaged in sucn a conflict as that in 
which they renuesled me to fall, I hope faey may escipe with being "wing- 
•a* •! tv and toat Ueaviside may be at hand to extract the ball. 



Such aie the genial feelings thou canst claim, 

My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 

Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase' 

For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 

Arise, my Jeffrey I or my inkless pen 

Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 

Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 

Alas! I cannot "strike at wretched kernes." 

Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 

A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine? 

Dear, d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs. 

Hast thou no vengeance for ray manhood's wrongs* 

If unprovoked thou once couldst bid me bleed, 

Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed? 

What ! not a word ! — and am I then so low ? 

Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 

Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? 

No wits for nobles, dunces by descent? 

No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, 

Nor one facetious paragraph of blame? 

Is it for this on Ilion I have stood. 

And thought of Homer less than Holyrood? 

On shore of Euxine or .iEgean sea, 

My hate untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 

Ah! let me cease; in vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydon unkind Alexisf turns: 

Thy rhj'mes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 

Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

What then? — Edina starves some lanker son, 

To write an article thou canst not shun : 

Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 

As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry. 
And poppies please not in a modern pie; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites; 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun; 
Will he who swims not to the river run? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach expertncss without years of toil; 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, 
Tag twenty thousand couplets when they please. 
Why not?— shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate. 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate; 
Wlio left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs. 
To all their income, and to iicice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, 
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt? 

Thus think "the mob of gentlemen ;" but you. 
Besides ail this, must have some genius too. 
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 
And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 

Q,ui nescit, versus tamen audet fingere ! Q.uid ni? 

Liber et ingenuus prsesertim census equestrem 

Siimmam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni. 

Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva: 

Id tibi judicium est, ea mens; si quid tamen ?lina 

Scripseris, in Metii descendant judicis aures, 

Et patris, ot nostras nonumque prematur in annum 

Membranis intus positis, delere licebit 

Quod non edideris; nescit vox missa reverti. 

Sylvestres homines sacer interpresque deorum 
Caedibus et victu fcedo deterruit Orpheus: 



luveuiei alium, si te hie fastidit, Alexis. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



71! 



Who (ere another Thalaba appears;, 

I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 

And hark'ye, Southey!* pray— but don't be vext— 

Burn all your last three works— and half the next. 

Bat why this vain advice? once publish'd, books 

Can never be recall'd- from pastry-cooks! 

Though "Madoc," with " Pucelle,"t instead of Punch 

May travel back to auito on a trunk !J: 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but woman by the ear; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour. 
We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then. 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws. 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes. 
And served the church without demanding tithes; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest. 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince^ 
And fighting's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
Though wa-ll'd Ithome had resisted long. 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
In song alone Apollo's will was told. 



* Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail in the " Curse of 
Keliania," maujre the neglect of Madoc, &c., and has in one instance had a 
v/cnderful effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely even- 
ing last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddiugton canal, was alarm- 
ed by the cry of "one in jeopardy :" he rushed along, collected a body of 
Irish haymakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock), procured 
three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horesco referens) 
pulled out — his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and 
Jo was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on 
inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last work. Its " alacrity of sinking" 
was so great, that it has never since been heard of, though some maintain 
that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premises, 
Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of 
" Fdlo de bibliopola" against a " quarto unknown ;"and circumstantial evi- 
dence being since strong against the " Curse of Kehama" (of which the above 
words are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers next session, in 
Grub-street. — Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, 
Exodia, Epigonaid, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, 
and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The 
judges are Pye, Bowles, and the bellman of St. Sepulchre's. The same ad- 
vocates, pro and con, will be employed as are novv engaged in Sir F. Burdelt's 
celebrated cause in the Scotch court. The public anxiously await the result, 
and all live publishers will be subpoenaed as witnesses. 

But Mr. Southey has published the " Curse of Kehama:" an inviting title 
to quibblers. By the by, it is a good dea.! beneath Scott and Campbell, and not 
much above Southey,'to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle them, in the 
Edinburgh Annual Register (of which, by the by, Southey is editor) "the 
grand poetical triumvirate of the day." But, on second thoughts, it can be no 
■Teat degree of praise to be the one-eyed leaders of the blind, though they 

ght as well keep to themselves "Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," 
■which must sadly discomfit poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor Southey, it 
should seem, is the "Lepidus" of this poetical triumvirate. I am only sur- 
prised to see him in such good company. 

" Such things we know are neither rich nor rare, 
But wonder how the devil he came there." 

The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid : " Because, 
in the triangles DEC, ACB, DB is equal to AC, and BC, common to both; 
{he two sides DB, BC, are equal to the two AC, CB, each to each, and the 
mgle D6C is equal to the angle ACB : therefore, the base DC is equal to the 
base AB, and tne triangle DBC (.Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle ACB, 
the less to the greater, which is absurd." &c. — The editor of the Edinburgh 
Register will find the rest of the theorem hari by his stabling : he has only 
to cross the river; 'tis the first turnpike t' other side " Pons Asinorum.'"* 

t Voltaire's " Pucelle" is n-it quite so immaculate as Mr. Southey's " Joan 
.-f Arc," and yet I am afraid the Frenchnijn has both more truth and poet- 
ry too on his side — (they rarely go together)— than our patriotic m instrel, 
who.ie first essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet, whose title 
of witch would be correct with the change of the first letter. 

I Like Sir B. Burgess's Richard, the tenth book of which I read at Malta, 
^X) a trunk of Eyres, 19, Coekspur-street If this be doubted, I shall buy a 
Dortmanteau to quote from. 



* This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edinburgh. Ballantyne 
»id it meant the "Bridge of Berwick," but Southey claimed it as half En- 

ish ; Scott swore it was the "Brig o' Stirling;" he had just passed two 
King James's and a dozen Douglasses over it. At last it was decided by Jef- 
frey that it meant nothin xnore nor less than the "counter of ArchyCoiista- 
We's s'nop." 



Then if your verse is what all verse should be. 
And gods were not ashamed on't, why should we? 

The muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd. 
In turns she'll seem a Paphian or a prude; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer. 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part, 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain; 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride or run a race 
Must bear privation with unrufiled face. 
Be caird to labour when he thinks to, dine, 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, 
Have follovv'd Music through her farthest flight; 
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
" 1 've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
And that's enough; then write and print so fast;— 
If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command. 
Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! 
Cash cannot quell them; Pollia play'd this prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank!) 
Not all the living only, but the dead. 
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus'' head;§ 
Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive— 
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive! 
Reviews record this epidemic crime. 
Those "Books of Martyrs" to the rage for rhyme, 
Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen 
In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine. 
There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot-prest. 
Behold a quarto — Tarts must tell the rest. 

Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque leones i 
Dictus et Amphion, Thebance conditor arcis, 
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda 
Ducere quo vellet: fuit ha;c sapientia quondam, 
Publica privatis secernere; sacra profanis; 
(Joncubitu prohibere vago; dare jura maritis; 
Oppida moliri; leges incidere ligno. 
Sic honor et notnen divinis vatibus atque 
Carminibus venit. Post hos insignis Homeru* 
Tyrtaeusque mares aninios in Martia bella 
Versibiis exacuit ; dictre per carmina sortes : 
Et vitffi monslrata via est: et gratia regum 
Pieriis tentata modis : ludusque repertus, 
Et longoruni operum finis: ne forte pudori 
Sit tibi Musa lyra; solers, et cantor Apollo. 

Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
QuBBsittim est: ego nee studium sine divite vena, 
Noc rude quid prosit video ingenium; alterius sic 
Altera poscit openi res, et conjurat amice. 
Qui stiidet optatara cursu contingere metam, 
Multa tulit fecitque puer; sudavit, et alsit; 
Ahstinuit Venere et vino: qui Pythia cantat 
Tibicen, didicit prius, extimuitque magistruni. 
Nunc satis est dixisse; ego mira poemata pango: 
Occupet extremuni scabies; mihi turpe relinqui est 
Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 



I Turn quoque marmorea caput a cervice renrisura 
Gurgite cum medio portans CEagrius Hebrus, 
Volveret Eurydicen vox ip^a. et frigida lingua; 
Ah, miseram Eurydicen ! anima fugiente vocabat; 
Eurjdicen toto referebant flvmine ripas. — GerrrftA J» 



20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Than leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 

To muse-mad baronets or madder lords. 

Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 

Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale I 

Hark to those notes, iiarcotically soft: 

The cobbler laureates sing* to Cape) Loiillt 

Till, Id! that modern Midas, as he hears, 

Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 

There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
^Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
To. publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught, to him? 
He vents his spleen or gratifies his whim. 
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, 
Some folly cross'd, some jest or some debate; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown, 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town ; 
If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man — 
.May heaven forgive you, for he never can! 
Then be it so; and may his withering bays 
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink. 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink. 
But springing upwards from the sluggish mould. 
Be, (what they never were before) be sold! 
Should some rich bard (but such a monster now. 
In modern physics, v.-e can scarce allow) 
Should some pretending scribbler of the court. 
Some rhyming peer— there's plenty of the sortj— 
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
(Ah! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!) 



* I bej Nathaniel's pardon ; he is not a cobbler; if is a tailor, but begged 

Capel Lotft (o sink the profession in his preface to two pair of panta 

psha ! — of cantos, which be wished the public to try on ; but the sieve of a 
patron let it out, and sn far saved the expense of an advertisement to his 
eouutry customers.— Merry's " .\rnorfield's whine" was nothing to all this. 
The J' Delia Cruscans" were people of some education, and no profession ; 
but these Arcadians ("Arcades ambo"— bumpkins bo h) send out their na- 
tive nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and small- 
clothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures and 
I'aeans to Gunpowder. Sitting on a shopboard, they "describe fields of battle, 
when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the finger ; and an " Es- 
say on War" is produced by the ninth part of a " poet." ~ 

" And own that nine such poets made a Tate." 
Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope? and if he did, why not take it a; 
his motto ? 

t This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent shoe-makers, 
asd been accessary to the pnetical undoing of many of the induitrious poorl 
Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire sing- 
ing; nor h.as the malady confined itself to ons county. Pratt too (who once 
was wiser) h,is caught the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor fel- 
low named Blackett into poetry; but he died during the operation, leaving 
one child, and two volumes of '■Remains'' utterly destitute. The girl, if 
she don't take a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoe-making Sappho, 
ni.ay do well; but the "tragedies" are as rickety as if they had been the 
offspring of an Earl oraSeatonian prize poet. 'The patrons of this poor 
lad are certainly answerable for his end, and it ought to be an indictable of- 
fence. But this is the least they have done, for, by a refiiiement of barbari- 
ty, thev have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing 
what he would have had sense enough never to print himself. Cerles these 
rakers of "Remains" come under the statute against "resurrection men." 
What does it signify whether a poor, dear, dead dunce is to be stuck up in 
Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall ? Is it so bad to unearth his bones as his 
blunders' Is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath, than his soul in an 
ectayo? "We know what we are. but we' know not what we may be ;" 
and it is to be hoped we never shall kn.- w, if a man who has passed through 
life with a sort of eclat is to find himself a mountebank on the other side 
»f Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgator)'. 
The plea of publication is to provide for the child ; now, might not some of 
•his " Sutnr ultra Crepidum's" friends anri seducers have done a decent ac- 
tion withoat inveiglins Pratt into biosraphy ? And then his inscription split 
uito so many modicums!— To the Dutchess of So-much, the Risht Hon. 
F(vand-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these volumes are, &c. &c." — why, 
this is doling out the "soft milk of dedication" in sills, — there is but a quart, 
Mid he divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst thou not a puff left? 

v.'-i*^"" 'liink six families of di-!iiiction cau share this in quiet?— There is 
a child, a book, and a dedication ; send the girl to her grace, the volumes to 
tJie grocer, and the dedication (o the devil. 

t Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to his notice 

** •"'•survivor, the "uitimus Romanonmi." the last of the "Cruscan- 

•"-•' Edwin' the "profound.'' by our Lady of Punishment! here he 

- u»"iv as ID fne navs ot " "-ell said Baviad the CorrecL" I though* 



Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 

Their last dramatic work by candlelight. 

How would the preacher turn each rueful leat, 

Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 

Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death. 

He'll risk no living for a little breath. 

Then spouts and foams, and cries at every lino 

(The Lord forgive him!) '-Bravo! grand! divine.' 

Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry fed. 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread,) 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot; 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart:— 

But all disemblers overact their part. 

Ye who aspire to build the lofty rhyme, 
Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;" 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
"Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 

* * * Si carmina condes, 

Nunqiiam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes 

Q.uinrilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodes. 
Hoc (aiebat) et hoc: melius te posse negares, 
Bis terque e.\pertum frustra. delere jubebat, 
Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 
Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles. 
Nullum ultra verbum, autoperam insumebat inancK 
Gtuin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 



Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy, but, alas ! he is only the peru'J 
mate. 

A FAJIILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
MORNING CHRONICLE. 
"What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think ! 
And so perhaps you "11 say of me. 
In which your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell you why; 
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny, 
But may instruct or entertain 
Without the risk of giving pain. 
And should you doubt what I assert, 
The name of Camden 1 insert, 
AVho novels read, and oft maintain'd 
He here and there snine knowledge gain'd • 
Then why not I indulge my pen, 
Though I no fame or profit gain, 
Vet may amuse ynur idle men ; 
Of whom, though some m.ay be severe. 
Others m^y read without a sneer? 
Thus much premised, 1 next proceed 
To give you "hat I feel my creed, 
And in what follows to display 
Some humours of the passing day. 
ON SOME MODERN QCACKS AND REFORMISTS' 
In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses, 
Though strange, 't is true, we often find 

It knows not its resources : 
And men through life assume a part 
For which no talents they possess, 
Yet wonder th.at, with all their art, 

They meet no belter with success. 
'TIS thus we see, through life's career, 

So few excel in their profession ; 
Whereas, would each man but appear 
In \vhat 's within his own possession. 
We should not see such daily quacks 
(For quacks there are in ever)' art) 
Attempting, by their strange attacks, 
To meliorate the n}ind and heart. 
Nor mean I here the stage alone. 

Where some deserve fh' applause they meet; 
For quacks there are, and they well known, 

In either house, who hold a seat. 
Reform 's the order of the day, I hear. 

To which I cordially assent : 
But then let this reform appear. 

And ev'ry class of men cement. 
For if you but reform a few, 

And others leave to their full bent, 
I fear you will but little do. 

And find your time and pains misspent 
Let each m.in to his post assign'd 
By Nature, take his part to act. 
And then few causes shall we find 

To call each man we meet — a quack.* 



* For such every man is who either appears to be what he 
to be what he cannot. 



ii xur 



I lb v» 



And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
IVithout amendment, and he answers, " Burn!" 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; 
But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
And will not alter what you can't defend, 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains,* — 
We'll have no words — I've only lost my pains. 

Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought; 
If your cool friend anuoy you now and then. 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen; 
Xo matter, throw your ornaments aside- 
Better let him than all the world deride, » 
Give light to passages too much in shade. 
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made; 
Your friend's "a Johnson," not to leave one word, 
However trifling, which may seem absurd; 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
And furnish food for critics,! or their quills. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tone, 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon, 
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, • 
As yawning waiters fly| Fitzscribble's lungs ; 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
As prelate's homily or placeman's speech; 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease. 
When riot pauses until rents increase. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, 

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes: 
Culpabit et duros; incomptis allinet atrum 
Transverso calamo signum ; ambitiosa recidet 
Ornamenta; parum Claris lucem dare coget ; 
Arguet ambigue dictum; mutanda notabit; 
Fiet Aristarchus: nee dicet. Cur ego amicura 
OS'endam in nugis? hs nugw seria ducent 
In mala derisura seniel exceptumque sinistre. 

Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urguet, 
Aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 
Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiunque poetam. 
Qui sapiunt ; agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur. 
Hie dum sublimes versus ructatur, el errat 
Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps 
In puteura, foveamve ; licet, Succurrite, longum 
Clamet, lo cives! non sit qui tollere curet. 
Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittere funera, 
Qui scis an prudens hue se dejecerit, atque 
Servari nolit? Dicam : Siculique pneta; 
Narrabo interitum. Deus immortalis haberi 
Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus ^Etnam 
Insiluit: sit jus liceatque perire poetis : 
Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti. 
Nee semel hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit, jam 
Fiet homo, et ponet famosae mortis amorem. 
Nee satis apparet cur versus factitet ; utrum 
Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental 
Moverit incestus; certe furit, ac velut ursus, 



* Ba-ttard of your fcram^.— Minerva bein? the first by Jupiter's head-piece, 
and a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such as Ma- 
doc, &c. &c. &c. 

T " A crust for the critics." — Bayes, in the Rehearsal. 

t And the " waiters" are the 6a\y fortunate people who can "fly" from 
them ; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the " Literary Fund," being 
compelled, by courtesy, v s=t ou' the recitation without a hope of exclaim- 
iag, " ?ic" (that is, by •'Jioaking Fitx, with bad wine or worse poetry) " me 
lenraTit Apollo !" 



If by some chance he walks into a well, 
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 
"A rope! help. Christians, as ye hope for grace 1" 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace: 
For there his carcase he might freely fling. 
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
Though this has happen'd to more bards than ona 
I'll tell you Budgfll's story, and have done. 

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims. 
'To die like Cato,"§ leapt into the Thames' 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 
Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse; 
li Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was founa 
Or got a child on consecrated ground! 
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 
If free, all fly his versifying fit. 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 
But him, unhappy I whom he seizes, — Mm 
He flays with recitation limb by limb; 
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, 
And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 

Objectos caveae valuit si frangere clathros, 
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus. 
auem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque le-rendo, 
Non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo 



§ On his table were found these words : JVhat Cato did and Mdism ajr 
proved cannot ht wron?." But Addison did not '■ approve ;" and if he haa 
it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on the 
same water party, but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this last pa- 
ternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of " Atticus," and the enemy of 
Pope. 

II If "dosed wilh," &c. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to the 
original for something still lower; and if any reader will translate i'Mmx- 
erif in patries cineres," &c. into a decent couplet, I will insert said coupled 



lieu of the present. 



coupled 



" Difficile est jtropne communia dicere."—Mde. Dacier, Mde. de Sevigne, 
Boileau, and others, liave left their dispute on the meaning of this pasja-'e in 
a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It is printed a? the 
close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevigne's Letters, edited by 
Grovelle, Paris, 1S06. Presuming that all who can construe may venture 
an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so many who can'7wr have 
taken the same liberty. I should have held my " farthing candle" as awk- 
wardly as another, had not my respect for the wits of I»uis the Fourteenth's 
A>^gustan siecle induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. 1st 
Boileau : '-11 est difficile de trailer des sujets qui sont a la portee de tout le 
monde d'une maniere qui vous les rende propres, ce qui s'appelle sUppro- 
prier un sujet par le tour qu' on y donne." 2dly, Batteux : " Mais il est 
bien difficile de dnnner des traits propres et individuels aux etres purement 
possibles." 3dly, Dacier: "II est difficile de trailer conveuablement ces 
caracferes que tout le monde pent invenler." Mde. de Sevigne's opinion 
and translation, consisting of some thirty pages, I omit, particularly as M. 
Grouvelle observes " La chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverse* 
interpretations ne parait etre la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, 
fifty years afterwards, " Le lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance to 
set Horace on his legs again, " dissiper tons les nuages, et conctlier tots lei 
dissentimens;"and, some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luwmous 
will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on thii 
weighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemv and Tycho, or com- 
ments of no more consequence than astronomical calculations on the preseni 
comet. I am happy lo say, " la longueur de la dissertation" of M. D. pre' 
vents M. G. from saying any m.ore on the matter. A better poet than Jioileill. 
and at least as good a scholar as Sevigne. has said, 

"A little learning is a dangerous thing." 
And by this comparison of comments it may be perceived how a good de* 
may be rendered ze 'erilous to the proprietor* 



3o2 



722 



atrtrtttonssji to tttt fJ^oxiv^ ot Ktrlene^s^* 



[Theie were several editions of the Hours of Idleness published in England; but no ono of 
them, until that of 1832, contamed all tlie pieces which properly belonged to that collection 
The following, when added to tliose in front of the book, make up the complete number.] 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 
SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 

OU ! mihi pneteritos referat si Jupiter annos. 

Virgil, ^neid, lib. 8, 560. 

1. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 

Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection. 
And friendships were form'd too romantic to last; 
2. 
Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades in friendship and mischief allied ; 
How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied! 
3. 
Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 
The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
we fought; 
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 
4. 
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay; 
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd. 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 
5. 
I once more view the room with spectators surrounded, 

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; 
While to swell my young pride such applauses re- 
sounded, 
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone : 
6. 
Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, 

By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived; 
Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

7. 
Ve dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 

L^nfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you; 
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 
8. 
1o Ida full ofi may remembrance restore me, 

While fate shall the shades of the future unroll I 
*unce darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me. 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 
9, 
But It, through the course of the years which await me, 

A)me new scene of pleasure should open to view, 
1 will say, while with rapture the thought shall 
elate me, 
*• Oh ! such were the days which my ''afancy knew." 

1806. 



TO D. 
1. 

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever; 
Till envy, with malignant grasp, 

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 
2. 
True, she has forced thee from my breast; 

Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat; 
There, there thine image still must rest, 

Until that heart shall cease to beat. 
3. 
And, when the grave restores her dead, 

When life again to dust is given, 
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head — 

Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
February, 1803. 



TO EDDLESTON. 
1. 
Let Folly smile, to view the names 

Of thee and me in friendship twined; 
Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined. 

2. 
And though unequal is thy fate. 

Since title deck'd my higher birth; 
Yet envy not this gaudy state; 
Thine is the pride of modest worth. 
3. 
Our souls at least congenial meet, 

Nor can thy lot ray rank disgrace; 
Our intercourse is not less sweet. 
Sin CO worth of rank supplies the place. 

J\roveTnber, 1802. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M B. PIGOT,ESQ 

ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 
1. 

Why, Pigot, complain 

Of this damsel's disdain, 
Why thus in despair do you fret? 

For months you may try. 

Yet, believe me, a sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 
2. 

Would you teach her to love? 

For a time seem to rove; 
At first she may frown in a pet; 

But leave her a while. 

She shortly will smile, 
And then you may kiss your coquette 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



72 



For such are the airs 

Of these fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt; 

Yet a partial neglect 

Soon takes an effect, 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 

4. 

Dissemble your pain, 

And lengthen your chain. 
And seem her hauteur to regret; 

If again you shall sigh, 

She no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 

5. 

If still, from false pride, 

Your pangs she deride. 
This whimsical virgin forget; 

Some other admire, 

Who will melt with your fire. 
And laugh at the little coquette. 
6. 

For me, I adore 

Some twenty or more. 
And love them most dearly; but yet. 

Though my heart they enthral, 

I'd abandon them all. 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
7. 

No longer repine, 

Adopt this design. 
And break tlirough her slight-woven net; 

Away with despair. 

No longer forbear. 
To fly from the captious coquette. 

8. 
Then quit her, my friend ! 
Your bosom defend, 
Ere quite with her snares you're beset: 
Lest your deep-wounded heart. 
When incensed by the smart. 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 21th, 1806. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 
1. 

Your pardon, my friend. 

If my rhymes did offend. 
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er; 

From friendship I strove 

Your pangs to remove. 
But I swear I will do so no more. 
2. 

Since your beautiful maid 

Your flame has repaid. 
No more I your folly regret; 

She's now the most divine, 

And I bow at the shrine 
Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
3. 

Yet still, I must own, 

I should never have known 
From your verses, whar else she deserved 

Your pain seem'd so great, 

I pitied your fate, 
As your fair was so devilish reserved 



Since the balm-breathing kiss 

Of this magical miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce; 

Since the " world you forget. 

When your lips once have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse. 

5. 

You say when "1 rove, 

I know nothing of love;" 
'Tis true, I am given to range : 

If I rightly remember, 

I've loved a good number, 
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

6. 

I will not advance. 

By the rules of romance. 
To humour a whimsical fair; 

Though a smile may delight, 

Yet a frown won't affright. 
Or drive me to dreadful despair. 

7. 

While my blood is thus warm 

I ne'er shall reform. 
To mix in the Platonists' school; 

Of this I am sure. 

Was my passion so pure. 
Thy mistress would think me a fool. 

8. 

And if I should shun 

Every woman for one. 
Whose image must fill my whole breast— 

Whom I must prefer. 

And sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest I 



Now, Strephon, good bye; 

I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd, 

Such love as you plead 

Is pure love indeed. 
For it only consists in the word. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 
1. 

Eliza, what fools are the Musselman sect, 

Who to women deny the soul's future existence; 
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect. 
And this doctrine would meet with a general resiat« 
ance. 

2. 
Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 

He ne'er would have women from paradise diiven. 
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 
With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
3. 
Yet still to increase your calamities more, 

Not content with depriving your bodies of spiril, 
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! — 
With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who could 
bear it? 

4. 
His religirn to please neither party js made; 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives the most uncivil 
Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 
" Though women are aiiFels. vet wedlock's the devil 



724 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LINES WRITTE:V in " LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN 
NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. BY J. J. 
ROUSSEAU. FOUNDED ON FACTS." 

" Away, away ! your flattering arts 
May now betray some s^'iip'vr hearts; 
And you will smile at ineir uelieving, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 

NSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS . 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts. 

From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, 

Exist but in imagination,— 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face. 

With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, 

He never wishes to deceive thee: 

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 

Thou 'It there descry that elegance 

Wliich from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises: 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 

Believe me, only does his duty: 

Ah! fly not from the candid youth; 

It is not flattery.-'tis truth. ^^^^^^ ^^^^^ 



THE CORNELIAN. 
I. 
No specious splendour of this stone 

Endears it to my memory ever; 
With lustre only once it shone. 
And blushes modest as the giver. 
2. 
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties. 

Have for my weakness oft reproved me ; 
Yet still the simple gift I prize,— 
For I am sure the giver loved me. 
3. 
He oflTer'd it with downcast look. 

As fearful that I might refuse it; 
I told him when the gift I took. 
My only fear should be to lose it. 
4. 
This pledge attentively I view'd. 

And sparkling as I held it near, 
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd. 
And ever since I've loved a tear. 
5. 
Still, to adorn his humble youth. 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield 
But he who seeks the flow ers of truth. 
Must quit the garden for the field. 
6. 
Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth. 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; 
The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 
7. 
Had Fortune aided Nature's care. 
For once forgetting to be blind. 
His would have been an ample share. 
If well-proportion'd to his mind. 
6. 
But had the goddess clearly seen, 

His form had fix'd her fickle brpast; 
Her countless hoards would his have been, 
And irone remain'd to give the rest. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY 
Cousin to the ^utJior, and very dear to him. 
1. 
Hush'd are the winas, and still the evening glow 
Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove, 
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb. 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 
2. 
Within this nanow cell reclines her clay, 

That clay where once such animation beam'd; 
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeera'd 

3. 

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel. 

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate I 
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 

Nor here the Muse her virtues would relate. 
4. 
But wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars 

Beyond Avhere splendid shines the orb of day; 
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 

Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 
5. 
And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign. 

And, madly, godlike providence accuse ? 
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain, 

I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 
6. 
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; 
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 

Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



TO EMMA. 
1. 

Since now the hour is come at last. 

When you must quit your anxious lover; 
Since now our dream of bliss is past, 

One pang, my girl, and all is over. 
2. 
Alas I that pang will be severe. 

Which bids us part to meet no more. 
Which tears me far from one so dear. 

Departing for a distant shore. 
3. 
Well : we have pass'd some happy hours. 

And joy will mingle with our tears ; 
When thinking on these ancient towers, 

The shelter of our infant years ; 
4. 
Where from the gothic casement's height. 

We view'd the lake, the park, the dale, 
And still, though tears obstruct our sight. 

We lingering look a last farewell 
5. 
O'er fields through which we used to run. 

And spend the hours in childish play; 
O'er shades where, when our race was done 

Reposing on my breast you lay; 
G. 
Whilst I, admiring, too remisu. 

Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies. 
Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering vyw 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



725 



Bee still the little painted bark, 

In which I rovv'd you o'er the lake; 
Bee there, high waving o'er the park. 
The elm I claniber'd for your sake. 
8. 
These times are past — our joys are gone, 

You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 
These scenes I must retrace alone; 
Without thee what will they avail? 
9. 
Who can conceive, who has not proved, 

The anguish of a last embrace? 
tVhen, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 
30. 
This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; 
This is of love the final close, 
Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu 1 



TO M. S. G. 
1. 

Whene'er I view those lips of thine. 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 
Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. 
2. 
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast. 
How could T dwell upon its snows? 
Yet is the daring wish represt. 
For that,^— would banish its repose. 
3. 
A glance from thy soul-searching eye 

Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 
Yet I conceal my love, and why? 
I would not force a painful tear. 
4. 
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 

Hast seen my ardent flame too well; 
And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? 
5. 
No! for thou never canst be mine. 

United by the priest's decree; 
By any ties but those divine. 
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 
6. 
Then let the secret fire consume. 

Let it consume, thou shalt not know; 
With joy I court a certain doom, 
Jlather than spread its guilty glow. 
7. 
I will not ease my tortured heart. 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; 
Rather than such a sting impart. 
Each thought presumptuous I resign. 
8. 
Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 

More than I here shall dare to tell; 
Thy innocence and mine to save,— 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 
9. 
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair. 
And hope no more thy soft embrace, 
Which to obtain my soul would dare. 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 



10. 
At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 

No matron shall thy shame reprove; 
Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 

No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE. 
1. 
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 

Sufiused in tears, implore to stay; 
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more than words can say f 
2. 
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest. 

When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; 
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 
3. 
But when oui' cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those that fell from tliine. 
4. 
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, 

Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame 
And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In sighs alone it breathed my name. 
5. 
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain. 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore; 
Remembrance only can remain. — 
But that will make us weep the more. 
6. 
Again, thou best beloved, adieu! 

Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 
Our only hope is to forget! 



TO CAROLINE. 
1. 
When I hear you express an affection so warm, 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm. 
And your eye beams a ray which can never decelra 
2. 
Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, 

That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear, 
That age will come on, when, remembrance, deploring. 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear. 
3. 
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to th« 
breeze. 
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining. 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 
4. 
'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er m> 
features, 
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures. 
In the death which one day will deprive you of me 
5. 
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade: 
He worships each look with «uch faithlul devotion 
A smile can enchant, or h ,.ear can dissuad*. 



726 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But as death, my behaved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, 
And our breasts which alive with such sympathy 
glow, 
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low: 
7. 
Ch] then let us drain, while we may, draughts of 
pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow: 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 

1805. 



TO CAROLINE. 
1. 
On\ when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? 
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this 
clay 1 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
But brings with new torture, the curse of to-day. 
2. 
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
[ts querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 
3. 
Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could 
assuage. 
On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its 
lightning. 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 
4. 
Hut now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing. 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 
5. 
Vox still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; 
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation. 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 
6. 
Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
Sinco in life, love and friendship forever are fled? 
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 

" 'A Bap8iTos 6e xop^<^'^S 
'ElfltuTa aovvov VX?'*" 

Jlnacreon. 



Kw&Y with those fictions of flimsy romance! 

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! 
3ive me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 
2. 
?e rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, 

Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, 
flora what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow. 

Could vou ever have tasted the first kiss of love! 



3. 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove 
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 

And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 
4. 
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art: 

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprova, 
1 court the effusions that spring from the heart 

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love 

5. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes 

Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : 
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? 
6. 
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth. 

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove 
Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 

And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 
7. 
W^hen age chills the blood, when our pleasures are 
past— 

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove— 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last. 

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 
Sweet girl! though only once we met. 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget; 
And though we ne'er may meet again 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, "I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will: 
In vain to drive thee from my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more represtj 
In vain I check the rising sighs. 
Another to the last replies: 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels: 

Deceit the guilty lips impart. 

And hush the guilty mandates of the heart; 

But soul's interpreters, the eyes. 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed. 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 

No spirit, from within, reproved us. 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter'd I repress, 

Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess; 

For as on thee my memory ponders. 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I'll say, 

Thy form appears through night, through day 

Awake, with it my fancy teems; 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; 

The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh! whate'er iny future fate, 

Shall joy or woe my steps awai', 

Tempted by love, by storms beset, 

Thine image I can ne'er forget. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



727 



Alas! again no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
"May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker j 
That anguish can ne'er o'ertake her; 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her. 
But bliss be aye her neart's partaker! 
Oh! may the happy mortal fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related. 
For her each hour new joys discover. 
And lose the husband in the lover! 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 'tis to feel the restless woe 
Which stings the soul, with vain regret. 
Of him who never can forget ! 



TO LESBIA. 



1. 

^esbia! since far from you I've ranged, 

Our souls with fond affection glow not: 
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 

I'd tell why,— but yet I know not. 
2. 
Your polish'd brow no cares have crosf. 

And, Lesbia! we are not much older, 
Since trembling first my heart I lost. 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 

"a. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age, 

Two years have lingering past away, love ! 
And now new thoughts our minds engage. 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 
4. 
'Tis I that am alone to blame, 

I, that am guilty of love's treason; 
Since your sweet breast is still the same. 

Caprice must be my only reason. 
5. 
I do not, love ! suspect your truth. 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; 
Warm was the passion of my youth. 

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 
6. 
No, no, my flame was not pretended. 

For, oh! I loved you most sincerely; 
And— though our dream at last is ended— 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

7. 
No more we meet in yonder bowers; 

Absence has made me prone to roving; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 
8. 
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd. 

New beauties still are daily bright'ning. 
Your eye for conquest beams prepared. 

The forge of love's resistless lightning. 
9. 
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed. 

Many will throng to sigh like me, love! 
More constant they may prove, indeed; 

Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 

As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies pa»em| 
near the spot were alarxxied by the sound of a bullet hissing near tLeta 
to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next aiomir^ 
1. 
Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead. 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 
And hurtling o'er thy lovely head. 
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms 



Surely some envious demon's force, 

Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 

Diverted from its first career. 
3. 
Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide 
But Heaven, with interposing power 

In pity turn'd the death aside. 

4. 
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 

Upon that thrilling bosom fell; 
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fea^ 

Extracted from its glistening cell: 
5. 
Say, what dire penance can atone 

For such an outrage done to thee? 
Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, 

What punishment wilt thou decree? 
6. 
Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence I should scarce deploi* 
It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before. 
7. 
The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 
8. 
But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect; 

Let it be death, or what thou wil-. 
9. 
Choose then, relentless! and I swear 

Naught shall thy dread decree preven 
Yet hold— one little word forbear I 

Let it be aught but banishmeJit. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 
"Aei 5\ aei jxe ^tvyti" 

Anacreon 
L 
The roses of love glad the garden of life. 

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestitent flaw 
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
Or prunes them for ever in love's last adieu !^ 
2. 
In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart. 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true; 
The chance of an hour may command us to pait. 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu! 
3. 
Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swo'tec 
breast, 
Will whisper, "Our meeting we yei mav '•eues' 



'28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, 
Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu 1 
4. 
Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth 
Love twined round their childhood his flowers as 
they grew ; 
They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu! 
5. 
Bweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 

Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? 
Vet why do I ask? to distraction a prey. 
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 
6. 
Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew: 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 
The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; 
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins; 

He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 
8. 
How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel 

His pleasures arc scarce, yet his troubles are few. 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 
9. 
youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue: 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ; 

Tlie shroud of affection is love's last adieu 1 
10. 
[n this life of probation for rapture divine, 

Astrea* declares that some penance is due; 
From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine. 

The atcriement is ample in love's last adieu! 
11. 
Who kneels to the god on his altar of light 

Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: 
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 

His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

"Sulpiciaad Cerinthum."— iffc. Qi(art. 

Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 

Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? 

Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 

That I might live for love and you again: 

But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate: 

By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 

ODE 3, LIB. 3. 
1. 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control; 
Vr threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent: 
Haies the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 



• The fioddBss of Juslice. 



Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above. 
With all his terrors then unfurl'd. 

He would unmoved, unawed behold: 
The flames of an expiring world. 

Again in crashing chaos roU'd, 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
Still dauntless midst the wreck of earth he'd smile 



FUGITIVE PIECES 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY 
A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING 
THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RA 
THER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. 

" But if an old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
If good Madam Squiuir.m my work should abuse, 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ?" 

Ansteifs New Bath Guide, p. 169. 

Candour compels me, Becher I to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
For this wild error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart; 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control. 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When love's delirium haunts the glowing mina 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind: 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love j 
Let those who ne'er confined my lay reprove: 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song. 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow. 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can knowi 
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;— 
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the sinrple truth. 
Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taintf 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid v/hose virgin breast is void of guile 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe- 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment the bosom with unholy fires. 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had reao 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few. 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true. 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd; 
Of fancied faurels I shall ne'er be proud; 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

J\''o^.emler 26, 1806. 



I 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



729 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
PUBLIC SCHOOL. 
vViiERE are those honours, Ida! once your own, 
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Haild a barbarian in her Ccesar's place, 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate. 
And seat Poniposus where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Poniposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
8uch as were ne'er before enforced in schools 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause. 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom: 
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you but the name. 

July, 1805. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me." 

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains. 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
When Health, aifrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
And flies with every changing gale of spring; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind: 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe. 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
With Resignation wage relentless strife. 
While Hope retires appall'd and clings to life. 
Yet less the pang when through the tedious hour 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power. 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven ; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene. 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm 
The orb of day unveils his distant form. 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain. 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams. 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze. 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields. 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields; 
Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crov/d to view 
1 o which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye except in dreams; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep. 
Whose ft .ms I now remember but to weep; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place! 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 

Ida! blest spot where Science holds her reign. 
How joyous once I loin'd thy vouthful train 1 
3P 97 



Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 

Again I mingle with thy playful quire; 

Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 

Unchanged by time or distance, seem the samei 

Through winding paths, along the glade, I trace 

The social smile of ev'ry welcome face ; 

My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe, 

Each early boyish friend or youthful foe, 

Our feuds dissolved, lut not my friendship past: — 

I bless the former, and forgive the last 

Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in my breasv, 

To love a stranger, friendship made me blest: — 

Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 

When every artless bosom throbs w'ith truth; 

Untaught by worMry wisdom how to feign, 

And check eaclj impulse with prudential rein; 

When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 

In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 

No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat. 

No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 

Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 

Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 

When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 

Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 

Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 

Still to assent, and never to deny — 

A patron's praise can well reward the lie: 

And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard. 

Would lose his opening prospects for a word? 

Although against that word his heart rebel, 

And truth, indignant, all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this ' "not mine the task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow- 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from sham»? 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
W^ith this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pomposus' virtues are but known to few: 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod. 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall. 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'Tis past, and thus she v/ill not sin again. 
Soon must her early song for ever cease. 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort; 
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown. 
Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
Who, thus transplanted from his father's schoo] 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule- 
Succeeded him whom all unite to praise. 
The dear preceptor of my early days; 
Probus, the pride of science, and the boasi. 
To Ida now, alas! for ever lost. 
With him for years we search'd the classic page. 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sags 
Retired at last, his small yet peacefui leat 
From learning's labour •« »he biest rei!Pa» 



/so 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Pomposus fills his magisterial chair; 
Poniposiis governs,— but, my muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot; 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, 
To him my tribute is already paid. 

High, thro' those elms with hoary branches crown'd, 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round; 
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue; 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
In rival bands between the wickets run. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force. 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray; 
While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
And arbours shade them from the summer heat: 
Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose. 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : 
" 'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought, 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought; 
Here have we fled before superior might. 
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 
While thus our souls with early passions swell. 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall; 
There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name 
Secures its owner's academic fame; 
Here mingling view the names of sire and son— 
The one long graved, the other just begun ; 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone. 
Denied in death a monumental stone, 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence v/ave 
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless gr?"c 
And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Wh-. tread our steps, and fill our farmer place, 
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law, 
And now in turn possess the reins of power. 
To lule the little tyrants of an hour;— 
Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 
They pass the dreary winter's eve away— 
" And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side; 
Jusl in ihis piace the mouldering walls they scaled 
Noi bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd; 
Hern Trobus came, the rising fray to quell. 
Ami here he falter'd forth his last farewell; 
And tiure one night abroad they dared to roam, 
i^Hiile bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home;"— 
While tins they speak, the hour must soon arrive. 
Win n n.i'ntis ol these, like ours, alone survive 



Yet a few years, one general wreck will wh3lm 
Tlie faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race, though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world. 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face. 
Some old companion of my early race. 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy. 
My eyes, my heart proclaiin'd me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around. 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; 
The smiles of beautj'— (for, alas! I've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)— 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were deal 
Could hardly charm me when that friend was neaf 
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise. 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; 
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove. 
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love, 
yet why should I alone with such delight 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name? 
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee— 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care: 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made by a parent's early loss my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek? 
What sister's gentle kiPs has prest my cheek? 
For me how dull the varant moments rise. 
To no fond bosom Pnk'd by kindred ties! 
Oft in the progrjsi of gome fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiLs collected round me seem; 
While still ti«e virions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest: 
I hear— I wake— and in the sound rejoice; 
I hear again— but ah! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must giri«> 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the r3.j ; 
While these a thousand kindred wrealfcy eni^Jite, 
I cannot call one single biossor/i n.iiifl: 
What then remains? in solitude to gros.^, 
To mix in friendship or to sigh alone? 
Thus must I cling to some endea/ing hand. 
And none more dear than Ida's -jocial band. 

Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends. 
Thy name ennobles him vrho thus commends; 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth. 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious 
To build his own upon thy deathless f»me. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



731 



Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 

Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 

Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 

Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 

Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, 

Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one: 

Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 

Together waited in our tutor's hall; 

Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 

Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 

Or {)lunging from the green declining shore, 

Oar pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; 

In every element, unchanged, the same. 

All, all that brothers should be but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Davus, the harljinger of childish joy ; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made- 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember in the factious strife 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe. 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: 
An act like this can simple thanks repay? 
Or all the labours of a grateful lay? 
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed. 
That instant, Davcs, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus! on me thy claims are justly great: 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate. 
To thee alone, unrivaird, would belong 
The feeble eflTorts of my lengthen'd song. 
Well canst thou boast to lead in senates fit— 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What rnay we hope from genius thus refined! 
When time at length matures thy growing years, 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Edryalus pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung: 
What though one sad dissention bade us part. 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound. 
And palpitate responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends,— I'll think we are so still. 
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
Vet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield. 
Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
To mrnds of ruder texture these be given— 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Kafly in polish'd courts might be thy seat, 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit; 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 



Would make that breast with indignation burn. 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest of the social band, 

See honest, open, generous Cleon stand; 

With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene 

No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 

On the same day our studious race begun. 

On the same day our studious race was run; 

Thus side by side Ave pass'd our first career. 

Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 

At last concluded our scholastic life, 

We neither conquer'd in the classic strife; 

As speakers each supports an equal name. 

And crowds allow to each a partial fame: 

To soothe a youthful rival's early pride. 

Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide. 

Yet candour's self compels me now to own 

Justice awards it to my friend alone. 

Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear! 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
To trace the hours which never can return; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell. 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
As infant laurels round my head were twined 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song. 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng. 
Or when my first harangue received applause. 
His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
What gratitude to him my soul possest. 
While hope of davv'ning honours fill'd my breast I 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The jiraise is due, who made that fame my own. 
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays, 
These young effusions of my early days. 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give: 
The song might perish, b-»t the theme must live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay? 
His honour'd name requires no vain display; 
By every son of grateful Ida blest. 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud. 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain. 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain 1 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past. 
This parting song, the dearest and the last; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy^ 
To me a silent and a sweet employ. 
But thou my generous youth, whose tender year* 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveir* 
Henceforth atfection sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boj. 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus:— "No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim 
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frowp 
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown 



732 



BYRON'S WORK:^. 



Ye^, ere from he ce our eager steps depart, 

One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart: 

My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 

Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine. 

Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 

Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 

Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 

A bright example of maternal love. 

Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 

i^est grief should bend my parent to the grave; 

From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 

No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek; 

By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 

Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: 

Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain. 

In thee her much-loved child may live again; 

Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 

Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress. 

So dear a hope must all my soul inflame. 

To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 

Struck with a filial care so deeply felt. 

In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 

Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow; 

Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 

" All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied ; 

" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 

To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 

Creusa's* style but wanting to the dame. 

Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 

But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 

Now, by my life! — my sire's most sacred oath — 

To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 

All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 

If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 

Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 

A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 

Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 

For friends to envy and for foes to feel ; 

A tawny nide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 

Slain 'mid the forest, in the hunter's toil, 

Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 

And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 

Arm'd thence they go, while all th' assembled train, 

To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 

More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 

lulus noldi5 amid the chiefs his place: 

His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail. 

Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by the night, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When snail the sleep of many a foe be o'er? 
Alas! some slumber who shall wake no more! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen; 
And flowing flasks, and scattered troops between: 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
"Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labour share : 
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise, 
Warch taou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies: 
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe. 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
Antt pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast: 
Btntch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed: 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
Pis omens more than augur's skill evince ; 



Cirn BTOtbtr of luWs, lost on the night when Troy was taken. 



But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 

Could not avert his own untimely fall. 

Next Remus' armour-bearer hapless fell. 

And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell: 

The charioteer along his courser's sides 

Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides; 

And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead: 

Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head : 

From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents poui 

Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 

Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire. 

And gay Serranus, filPd with youthful fire: 

Half the long night in childish games was pass'd; 

Luird by the potent grape, he slept at last: 

Ah! happier far had he the morn survey'd. 

And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls: 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; 
In seas of gore tlie lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name: 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel. 
Yet wakeful Rhoesus sees the threatening steel. 
His coward breast behind a jar he hides. 
And vainly in the weak defence confides; 
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins. 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way. 
Whose fire emits a faint and trembling ray; 
There, unconfiu'd, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm :— 
"Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd; 
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last' 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

What silver arms, with various art emboss'd. 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd. 
They leave regardless! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt; 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn. 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend. 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend- 
Just at this hour a band of Latian horsp 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course: 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay. 
The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led. 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped: 
Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls; 
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night. 
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
Volscens with question loud the pair alarms: — 
"Stand, stragglers! stand! why early thus in arras} 
From whence, to whom ?" — He meets with no repi) 
Trusting the covert of the night, thevfly; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



733 



fhe thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 
While round the wood the hostik squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between. 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
" O God! my boy," lie cries, "of me bereft, 
In what impending perils art thou left V 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees. 
Tumultuous I'oices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound; 
Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue. 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? 
Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
On Luna's orb he casts his frenzied eye: — 
"Goddess serene, transcending every star! 
Queen of the sky whose beams are seen afar! 
By night heaven owns thy svvaj', by day the grove, 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
Through parting shades the hurtling weapon sung; 
The thirsty point in Suimo's entrails lay, 
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay: 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes; 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. 
"Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 
duick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals. 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies: 
" Me, me — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres! thou conscious Heaven! attest 1 
He could not— durst not— lo! the guile confest! 
All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend: 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs! from him your rage remove; 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
4e pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
4.nd sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: 
(is some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share; 
3 p2 



Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower; 
Tlius, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. 
And lingering beauty hovers njund the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide; 
Volscens ho seeks amid the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on fooi 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow: 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond afi^ection proved— 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place. 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace! 

Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire. 
No future day shall see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome! 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRITTEN 

BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF "THE WAN 

DERER IN SWITZERLAND," icc. &c. ENTITLE! 

" THE COMMON LOT." 

1. 

Montgomery ! true, the common lot 

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; 
Yet some shall never be forgot — 
Some shall exist beyond the grave. 
2. 
" Unknown the region of his birth," 

The hero* rolls the tide of war ; 
Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
Which glares a meteor from afar. 
3. 
His joy or grief, his w^eal or woe, 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 
Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 
4. 
The patriot's and the poet's frame 

Must share the common tomb of all ; 
Their gloi-y will not sleep the same; 
That will arise though empires fall. 
5. 
The lustre of a beauty's eye 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
The fair, the brave, the good must die. 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
6. 
Once more the speaking eye revives, 

Still beaming through the lover's strain) 
For Petrarch's Laura still survives: 
She died, but ne'er will die again 
7. 
The rolling seasons pass away. 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing; 
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay. 
But bloom in fresh unfading spring. 



* No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, ««• 
mours, Edn-ard the Black Prince, and in p::ore modern times the fame of lifiapt 
borough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxt, Charles of Sweden, &c. are hwU 
iar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are kBO«« 
a very small proportion of tlu ir admirers 



?34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the (lilent tomb; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 
9. 
The mouldering marble lasts its day. 

Yet falls at length an useless fane; 
To ruin's ruthluss fangs a prey, 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
10. 
What though the sculpture be destroy'd. 

From dark oblivion meant to guard? 
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 

By those whose virtues claim reward. 
11. 
Then do not say the common lot 

Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; 
Some few who ne'er will be forgot 

Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 



1806. 



TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER. 
1. 

Vexr Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind: 

I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
Put retirement accords with the tone of my mind : 

I will not descend to a world I despise. 
2. 
Cid the senate or camp my exertions require. 

Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; 
When infancy's years of probation expire. 

Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 
3. 
The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd 

Still mantles unseen in its secret recess: 
At length in a volume terrific reveal'd. 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 
4. 
Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. 
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame. 

With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 
5. 
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death. 

What censure, what danger, what woe would I 
brave 1 
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath, 

Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
6. 
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? 

Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe; 
Wy passion the matrons of prudence reprove; 

1 hrive found that a friend may profess, yet deceive, 
8. 
1o nic what is wealth? it may pass in an hour, 

I^ tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 
To me what is title ?--the phantom of power; 

To KT.e what is fashion? — I seek but renown. 
9. 
©Mfcit is a stranger as yet to my soul, 

f itiL am unpractise(' to varnish the trrth; 



Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 
Why waste upon folly the days of my youth? 



TO MISS CHAWORTH. 
1. 
Oh! had my fate been join'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appear'd a token. 
These follies had not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken. 
2. 
To thee these early faults J owe. 

To thee, the wise and old reproving: 
They know my sins, but do not know 
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving 
3. 
For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
And all its rising fires could smother; 
And now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
4. 
Perhaps his peace I could destroy. 

And spoil the blisses that await him; 
Yet let my rival smile in joy. 
For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
5. 
Ah J since thy angel form is gone. 

My heart no more can rest with any; 
But what it sought in thee alone, 
Attempts, alas! to find in many. 
6. 
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; 
Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid, 
But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 
7. 
Yet all this giddy waste of years. 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears. 
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures 
8. 
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd :— 

This cheek, now pale from early riot, 
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd. 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
9. 
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet. 

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; 
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit. 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 
10. 
But now I seek for other joys ; 

To think would drive my soul to madness; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 
I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
11. 
Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 

In spite of every vain endeavour; 
And fiends might pity what [ feel. 
To know that thou ait lost for ever 



REMEMBRANCE. 

'Tis done! — I saw it in my dreams: 

No more with Hope the future beams; 
My days of happiness are few : 

Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 

My dawn of life is overcast. 
Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu I— 
Would 1 could add Remembrance too! 



sne. 



(735) 



JWfecrllaneotis^ ^oeiii!^. 



THE BLUES. 

A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 



"Nimium ne crede colori." — Virgil. 
O trnst not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
Though your hair were as red as your stockings are blue. 



ECLOGUE FIRST. 
London. — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 
Ink. You're too late. 
Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. Nor will be this hour, 

E'lt the benches are cramm'd like a garden in flower. 
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 

fashion ; 
Sk) instead of "beaux arts," we may say "la belle psis- 

sion ;" 
For learning which lately has taken the lead in 
The world and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 
Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my 
patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There 's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords 

and Co. 
With their damnable — 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 

Whom you speak to? 

Tra. Right well, boy, and so does " the Row ;" 

You're an author — a poet — 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses? 

Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 

To the Nine; though the number who make some pre- 
tence 
To their favours is such— but the subject to drop, 
I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I 
Cannot find the new^ volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces. 
As one finds every author in one of those places,) 
Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek! 
Where your friend— you know who— had just got such 

a threshing. 
That is, as the phrase goes, extremely "refreshing." 
What a beautiful word ! 

Ink. Very true; 'tis so soft 

And so cooling— they use it a little too oft ; 
And the papers have got it at last— but no matter. 
So they've cut up our friend then? 

T^^a. Not left him a tatter— 

ot a rag of his present or past reputation. 

Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 

Ink. I 'm sorry to hear this ; for friendship, you 

know — 

Our poor friend!— but I thought it would terminate so 

Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. 

Vou ^don't happen to have the Review in your pocket? 

Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors and others 



(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a hroihefn 
All scrambling and jostling, like so many impu 
And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 
Ink. Let us join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture 

Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there 's not room 
for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

Tra. How can you know that till you hear him? 

Ink. I heard 

Quite enough; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 

Tra. I have had no great loss then? 

Ink. Loss! — such a palaver 1 

I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such labour. 

That come— do not make me speak ill of one's 

neighbour. 

Tra. I make you ! 

Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 

Tra. To speak tilt 

Is that your deduction ? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp, ill, 

I certainly /oZZozo, not set an example. 
The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool 
makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jews'-harp he nicknames his lyre. 
To call you to this hotbed. 

Tra. I own it— 'tis true— 

A fair lady 

Ink. A spinster? 

Tra. Miss Lilac! 

Ink. The Blue! 

The heiress? 

Tra. The angel! 

Ink. The devil ! why, man I 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac! 't would be your perdition: 
She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 

Tra. I say she's an angel. 

Ink. Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle. 
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ethei. 

Tra. And is that any cause for not coming together? 

Ink. Humph! I can't say I know any happy alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with 

science. 
She's so learned in all things, and fond of concero- 

ing 
Herself in all matters connected with learning. 
That 

Tra. What? 

Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tong»«i 

But there's five hundred people can tell vou y<;a >• 
wrong. 



736 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tra. You forgel Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. 

Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue? 

Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you— something 
of both. 
the girl 's a fine girl. 

[nk. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mother"s reversion; and yet 
Uer life is as good as your own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes; I de- 
mand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and 
hand. 

ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand— that hand 
on the pen. 

Tra. Apropos— Will you write me a song now and 
then ? 

Ink. To what purpose? 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes; 
But in rhyme 

Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it ; and yet, in these times, there 's no lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few? 

Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. In ray name. I will copy ihem out, 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this? 

Tra. Why, 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime? 

Ink. As sublime ! If it be so, no need of my Muse. 

Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she 's one of the 
" Blues." 

Ink. As sublime!— Mr. Tracy— I've nothing to say. 
Stick to prose — As sublime ! ! — but I wish you good 
day. 

Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider— I 'm 
wrong: 

own it; but prithee, compose me the song. 

Ink. As sublime! ! 

TVa. I but used the expression in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 
bad taste. 

Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
^■an I say to you more? 

Ink. I see what you'd be at: 

fou disparage my parts with insidious abuse, 
Pill you think you can turn them best to your own 
use. 

Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 

Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what ; 

And you, who 're a man of the gay world, no less 
Than a poet of t'other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean by a word to offend 
A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 

Ink. No doubi; you by this time should know what 
»s due 
•lo a mar* of— but come— let us shake hands. 

Tr . You knew, 

And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Wliatever you publish, am ready to buy. 

Ink. That's my bookseller's business; I care not for 
sale; 
ITjdeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, 
-*nd my own grand romance 

TVa Had its full share of praise. 



I myself saw it piiff"d in the "Old Girl's Review." 

Ink. What Eevjew ? 

T7-a. 'Tis the Englisn " Journal de Trevoux;* 

A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it? 

Ink. That pleasure's to come 

Tra. Make haste then. 

Ink. Why so? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t'other day. 

Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 

Trn. No doubt 

Shall }'ou be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout? 

Ink. I 've a card, and shall go ; but at present, as 
soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 

the moon, 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits,) 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation. 
To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation : 
'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise. 
And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not unpleasant. 
Will you go? There's M.'ss Lilac will also be present. 

Tra. That " metal 's attractive." 
%ik. No doubt— to the pocket. 

Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than 
shock it. 
But let us proceed; for I think, by the hum 

Ink. Yery true; let us go, then, before they can 
come. 
Or else we '11 be kept here an hour at their levy, 
On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark! Zounds, they'll be on us ; I know by the drone 
Of old Botherby's spouting, ex-cathedra tone. 
Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join 
Your friends, or he 'II pay you back in your own coin. 

Tra. All fair; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 

Ink. That's clear. 

But for God's sake let's go, or the bore will be here. 
Come, come; nay, I'm off. [Exit Inkel. 

Tra. You are right, and I'll follow; 

'Tis high time for a '' Sic me servavit Apollo." 
And yet we shall have the Avhole crew on our kibes. 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes, 
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

lExH Tract. 

ECLOGUE SECOND. 

.^n Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle. — 
A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bldebottle, solus. 
Was there ever a man who was married so sorry? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void. 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd : 
The twelve, do I say ? — of the whole twenty-four. 
Is there one which I dare call my own any more? 
What with driving, and visiting, dancing and dining, 
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, ant 

shining. 
In science and art, I'll be curst if I know 
Myself from my wife; for .'llhough we are two. 
Yet she somehow contrives that all things sha'l be 

done 
In a stv e that proclaims us eternally one- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



737 



Hut the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me 

sore) 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost 
- -For the bill here, it seems, is defrayed by the host- 
No pleasure ! no leisure! no thought for my pains. 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains ; 
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out. of reviews. 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call " Blues ;" 
A rabble who know not— but soft, here they come ! 
Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be dumb. 

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Blue- 
MODNT, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss Maza- 
rine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer, <^c. ^c. 

Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Itichard, good morning; I've 
brought you some friends. 

Sir Rich, {hoics, and afterwards aside.) If friends, 
they're the first. 

Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans cercmonie.'' 
Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued; take your chair there, 
next me. [They all sit. 

Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy- 

Lady Bluemount— Miss Lilac— be pleased, pray, to 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr. Botherby— 

Beth. Oh, my dear Lady, 

£ obey. 

Lcdj Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye ; 
Vou were not at the lecture. 

Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 

3ut the heat forced me out in the best part— alas! 
And when— 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling ; but then 
You have lost such a lecture! 

Both. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 

Both. Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Liiac, permit me to help you ;— a wing? 

Miss Lil. No more, Sir, I thank you. Who lectures 
next spring? 

Both. Dick Dunder. 

Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not ? 

Ink. No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
I..ady Bluemount! a glass of Madeira? 

Lady Bluem. With pleasure. 

Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that Winder- 
mere treasure? 
Does he stick to his lakes, likes the leeches he sings, 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriois and 
kings ? 

Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 

Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his mas- 
ter; 
For the poet of pedlars 'tw^ere, sure, no disaster 
To wear a new livery; the more, as 'tis not 
The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his coat. 

98 



Lady Bluem. For shame! I repeat. If Sir George 

could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkei; we aU 
know, my dear, 
'Tis his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 'tis one in "the Stamps:' 
He is made a collector. 

Tra. Collector! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What ? 

Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat: 

There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 

Ink. 1 shan't go so far — [ can have them at Granges.* 
Lady Blueb. Oh fie! 
Miss Lil. And for shane ! 

Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 

Both. Very good 

Lady Bluem. How good ? 

Lady Blueb. He means naught— 'tis his phrase. 

Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 

Lady Blueb. He means nothing; nay, ask him. 
Lady Bluem. Pray, sir! did you mean 

What you say? 

Ink. Never mind if he did; 'twill be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 
Both. Sir! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise; 
'T was in your defence. 

Both. If j'ou please, with submission. 

I can make out my own. 

Ink. It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourself or your works ; but leave both to a friend- 
Apropos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 
Both. At last? 

Ink. Why I thought — that's to say — there had past 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted— you know 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 
Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, and so 's the 

committee. 
Ink. Ay— yours are the plays for exciting our " pity 
And fear," as the Greek says ; for " purging the mind," 
I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind. 
Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to havt 
pray'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 
Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the pl<ty's to ba 
play'd. 
Is it cast yet? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and go the J?r« 

night. 
Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 
Ink. Not quite 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I '11 do what I can, though my paias must be double 
Tra. Why so? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I've no tears on thai 
score. 

Your parts, Mr, Inkel, are 

Ink. Never mind vane. 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite yorr own line 



■ Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer m PiccaddilT 



V38 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



think, sir, 



Ladp Bluem. You're a fugitive writer 

of rhymes ? 
Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
Or on Mouthy, his friend, without taking to flight. 
Ladij Blucm. Sir, your taste is too common ; but time 
and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Become its reproach. 

Ink. I've no sort of objection, 

So I'm not of the party to take the infection. 
Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever 

will take ? 
Ink. Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea. 
Of pension or place;— but the subject's a bore. 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming. 
Ijik. Scamp! don't you feel sore? 

What say you to this? 

Scamp. They have merit, I own; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures ? 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my 

strictures. 

Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness :— the joy 
of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature !— Grand Shakspeare ! 
Both. And down Aristotle. 

Lady Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with Lady 
Bluebottle ; 
And my Lord Seventy -four, who protects our dear 

Bard, 

And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses. 
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
Tra. And you. Scamp !— 

Scamp. I needs must confess I 'm embarrass'd. 

Ink. Do n't call upon Scamp, who 's already so 
harass'd 
With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and 
all schools. 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be 
fools. 
I should like to know who. 

jjik. And I should not be sorry 

To know who are not .-—it would save us some worry. 
Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing 
control 
This "feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
Oh, ray dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathize !— I 
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic— "so buoyant I—so buoyant I"* 
Ink. Tracy I open the window. 
Xra I "'ish her much joy on 't. 

Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way ; 't is an impulse which lifts 
Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; 
Fg: which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun- 
tain. 
T i the source of all sentiment— feeling's true foun- 
tain: 
Tip the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 'tis the gas 
Of the soul : 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, 
fina making them substance: 't is something divine :— 
fnk. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine ? 



Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
Ink. Apropos — Do you dine with Sir Humphrey to 

day? 
Tra. I should think with Z)MA:e Humphrey was moio 

in your way. 
Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors now look 
To the knight, as a landlord, much more than the 

Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is. 
And (except with his publisher) dines where he pleases. 
But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 'tia 
dark. 
And you, Scamp — 

Scamp. Excuse me ; I must to my notes, 

For my lecture next week. 

Ink. He must mind whom he quotes 

Out of "Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up; 

But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 
Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we '11 all meet 
again. 
For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne 1 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
Both. I honour that meal; 

For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely— feel. 
Ink. True ; feeling is truest then, fat beyond quea- 
tion : 
I wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion ! 
Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one mo- 
ment of feeling 
Is worth — God knows what. 
Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows But here comes your 

carriage. 
Sir Rich, (aside.) I wish all these people were d — d 
with my marriage ! [Exeunt 



Fact from Tfe. with the words. 



THE 

THIRD ACT OF MANFRED, 

IN ITS ORIGINAL SHAPE, 

AS FIRST SENT TO THE PUBLISHER. 



ACT in. 

Scene I.— A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
Manfred and Herman. 

Man. W^hat is the hour? 

Her. It wants but one 'ill sunset 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well; 

Thou may St retire. [Exit Herma* 

Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me— 

Inexplicable stillness! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew ot life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest. 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should 
The golden secret, the sought "Kalon" found 
And seated in my soul. It will not last- 



MISCELLAJNTEOUS POEMS. 



739 



3at it is well to have known it, though but once: 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And 1 within my tablets would note down 
riiat there is such a feeling. Who is there? 
Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Ahhot. Peace be with Count Manfred! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
Thy presence honours them, and blesses those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count; 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman retire. What would my reverend 
guest? [^Exit Herman. 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude; — Age and zeal, my 
office. 
And good intent, must plead my privilege; 
Our near, though not acquainted, neighbourhood 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange. 
And of unholy nature, are abroad. 
And busy with thy name — a noble name 
For centuries; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the 
things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That v.ith the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death. 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind. 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things? 

Abbot. My pious brethren— the scared peasantry- 
Even thy own vassals— who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy— 

I would not pry into thy secret soul; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to 
heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply: whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances? prove and punish!* 

Abbot. Then, hear and tremble ! For the headstrong 
wretch 
Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins. 
There is the slake on earth, and beyond earth eter- 
nal 

Man. Charity, most reverend father, 
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
Tliat I would call thee back to it; but say, 
What wouldst thou with me? 

Abbot. It may be there are 

Things that would shake thee— but I keep them back, 
And give thee till to-morrow to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 



* It wUl be perceived tliat, as far as this, the original matter of the 
ThiriJ Act has been retained. 



To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
To the monastery 

Man. I understand thee, — well. 

Abbot. Expect no mercy ; I have warned thee. 

Man. {opening the casket.) Stop- 

There is a gift for thee within this casket. 

[Manfred opens the casket, strikes a ligi^ 
and burns some incense. 

Ho ! Ashtaroth 1 

The Demon Ashtaroth appears, singing as follows: 
The raven sits 

On the raven stone. 
And his black wing flits 

O'er- the milk-white bone; 
To and fro, as the night winds blow, 

The carcass of the assassin swings ; 
And there alone, on the raven-stone,t 

The raven flapp his dusky wings. 
The fetters creak — and his ebon beak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
And this is the tune by the light of the moon 

To which the witches dance their round, 
Merrily, meirily, cheerily, cheerily. 

Merrily, merrily, speeds the ball : 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in Cloudf, 

Flock to the witches' carnival. 

Abbot. I fear thee not — hence — hence — 
Avaunt thee, evil one!— help, ho! without there! 

Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn— to iti 
peak- 
To its extremest peak — watch with him there 
From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him not; and, when the moirow breaks, 
Set him down safe in his cell — away with him I 

Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
Convent and all, to bear him company? 

Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take bin) 
up. 

Ash. Come, friar! now an exorcism or two. 
And we shall fly the lighter. 

Ashtaroth disappears with the Abbot, singing oi 
follows : 
A prodigal son and a maid undone, 

And a widow re-wedded within the year; 
And a worldly monk and a pregnant nwi. 
Are things which every day appear. 
Manfred alone. 

Man. Why would this fool break in on me, aivd 
force 
My art to pranks fantastical?— no matter. 
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens 
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul; 
But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
After the hurricane : the winds are still, 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
And there is danger in them. Such a rest 
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarrd 
In the immortal part of me.— What now? 
Re-enter Herman. 

Rer. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so? 

I will look on him. 



t "Raven-stone, fRabenstein,) a translation of the German ^rord to 
the gibbet, which in Germany and Switzerland is permanent and bind* <d 
stone." 



740 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



[Manfred advances to the icindoio of the hall. 
Glorious orb!* the idol 
Of early nature, and tlie vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, tlie giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne er return. — 
Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveaTd. 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons! thou material God! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! thou chief stai ! 
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them! for, near or far. 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
Even as our outward aspects; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone: 
I follow. lExit Manfred. 

ScENF K..—The Mountains— The Castle of Manfred at 
some distance — ^ Terrace before a Tower.— Time, Twi- 
light. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of Manfred. 
Her. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for 
years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it,— 
So have we all been oft-times ; but from it. 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One cnaraber where none enter; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years. 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'T were dangerous : 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the 

castle — 
How many years is't? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his rather, whom he naught resembles. 
Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits: 
Count Sigismund was proud,— but gay and free— 
A warrior and a reveiler ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wo f, nor turn aside 
From men and th&ir delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

iJut those were jocund times! I would tha. such 
Would visit the old walls again; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 



• This soliloqay, and a great pkrt of the subsequent i 
M red lA tbe preieat form of tbe drama. 



have been re- 



Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen 
Some strange things in these few years.f 

Her. Come, be friendly 

Relate me some, to while away our watch: 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same lower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like it that it might be the same; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings— her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
The Lady Astarte, his 

Her. Look — look — the tower — 

The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth 1 wbal 

sound, 
What dreadful sound is that? [^ A crash like thunder 

Manuel. Help, help, there !— to the rescue of the 
Count — 
The Count's in danger, — what ho! there! approach! 
[The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach 
stupificd with terror. 
If there be any of you who have heart 
And love of human kind, and will to aid 
Those in distress — pause not — but follow me — 
The portal 's open, follow. [Mandel goes in 

Her. Come— who follows? 

What, none of ye? — ye recreants! shiver then 
Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
His few remaining years unaided. [Herman goes in 

Vassal. Hark !— 

No— all is silent— not a breath— the flame 
Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone ; 
What may this mean? let's enter! 

Peasant. Faith, not I, — 

Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
I then will stay behind; but, for my part, 
I do not see precisely to what end. 

Vassal. Cease your vain prating— come. 

Manuel, {speaking tcithin.) 'Tis all in vain- 

He 's dead. 

Her. (within.) Not so— even now mcthought he moved 
But it is dark— so bear him gently out— 
Softly — how cold he is ! take care of his temples 
In winding down the staircase. 
Re-enter Manuel and Herman, bearing Manfred in 
their arms. 

Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
For the leech to the city— quick! some water there 1 

Her. His cheek is black— but there is a faint beat 
Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 

{They sprinkle Manfred with water; after a pause 
he gives some signs of life. 

Manuel. He seems to strive to speak— come— cheerly 
Count! 
He moves his lips— canst hear hiin? I am old 
And cannot catch faint sounds. 

[Herman inclining Ms head and listening. 

Her I hear a woru 



t Altered, in the present form, to " Some strange things in them. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 74 1 


! 


Or two— but indistinctly— what is next? 


FRAGMENT. 


What's to be done? let's bear him to the castle. 


1. 




[Manfred motions with his hand not to remove him. 


Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, 




Manuel. He disapproves— and 't were of no avail- 


Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 




He changes rapidly. 


How the northern tempests warring. 


1 


Her. 'Twill soon be over. 


Kowl above thy tufted shade! 




Manuel. Oh! what a death is this! that I should live 


2. 

Now no more, the hours beguiling. 


1 


To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
Of the house of Sigismund — And sjich a death! 


! 


Alone— we know not how— unshrived— untended— 


Former favourite haunts I see; 




With strange accompaniments and fearful signs— 
I shudder at the sight— but must not leave him. 


Now no more my Mary smiling 
Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 

1805, 


1 


Manfred, (speaking' faintly and slowly.) Old man ! 
1 'Tis not so difficult to die. 








[Manfred, having said this, expires. 




I 


Her. His eyes are fix'd and lifeless.— He is gone. 


TPIE PRAYER OF NATURE. 


i 


Manuel. Close them.— My old hand quivers.— He de- 


Father of Light ! great God of Heaven . 


i 
i 


parts— 


Hear'st thou the accents of despair 7 


i 


'Vhither? I dread to think— But he is gone! 


Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 


i 




Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 
Father of Light, on thee I call ! 


1 

1 




TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. 


Thou see'st my soul is dark within; 
Thou who can'st mark the sparrow's fall. 




'the following lines are the earliest written by 


Avert from me the death of sin. 


i 


LORD BYRON. THEY WERE ADDRESSED TO MISS CHA- 


No shrine I seek to sects unknown; 




WORTH, AFTERWARDS MRS. MUSTERS, IN 1804, ABOUT 


Oh point to me the path of truth! 




i TEAR BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.] 


Thy dread omnipotence I o\vn ; 




Adieu to sweet Mary for ever! 


Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 




From her I must quickly depart : 


Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 




Though the fates us from each other sever. 


Let superstition hail the pile. 




Still her image will dwell in my heart. 


Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 
With tales of mystic rites beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 




The flame that within my heart burns 




If unlike what in lovers' hearts glows; 




The love which for Mary I feel 




Is far purer than Cupid bestows. 


Earth, ocean, heaven thy boumfless tbroiw 




I wish not your peace to disturb, 


Shall man condemn his race to hell 




I wish not your joys to molest; 


Unless they bend in pompous form 




Mistake not my passion for love, 


Tell us that all, for one who fell. 


1 


'Tis your friendship alone I request. 


Must perish in the mingling storm? 




Not ten thousand lovers could feel 


Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 
Yet doom his brother to expire, 

Whose soul a diflerent hope supplies, 
Or doctrines less severe inspire? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 




The friendship my bosom contains; 
It will ever within my heart dwell, 




' While the warm blood flows through my veins. 


i 


May the Ruler of Heaven look down, 


Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 




And my Mary from evil defend! 


Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground, 




May she ne'er know adversity's frown. 


Tiieir great Creator's purpose know? 




May her happiness ne'er have an end! 


Shall those, who live for self alone. 




Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu! 
Farewell! I with anguish repeat, 
For ever I'll think upon you. 


Whose years float on in daily crime — 
Shall they by Faith for guilt atone. 
And live beyond the bounds of Time? 




While this heart in my bosom shall beat. 


Father! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear;— 


1 




I own myself corrupt and weak. 
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! 








TO MISS CHA WORTH. 


Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 


1 


Oh Memory, torture me no more. 


Through trackless realms of ether's space » 




The present 's all o'ercast ; 


Who calm'st the elemental war, 


j 


My hopes of future bliss are o'er. 


Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: 


1 


In mercy veil the past. 


Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 


1 


Why bring those images to view 


Who, when thou wilt, can take rae hen«a 


1 


I henceforth must resign? 


Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sp:here. 


1 


Ah! why those happy hours renew, 


Extend to me thy wide defence. 




That never can be mine? 


To Thee, my God, to Thee I cal! 




Past pleasure doubles present pain, 


Whatever weal or woe betide, 




To sorrow adds regret. 


By thy command I rise or fall. 


1 


Regret and hope are both in vain. 


In thy protection 1 confide. 


1 


I ask but to— forget. 


If, when this dust to dust restor«»d 




*!SU4. 


My soul shall float on airv --inf. 




3Q 




1 






J 



^42 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing! 
But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
*Vhile life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 

Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful for all thy mercies past. 
And hope, my God, to thee again 

This erring life may fly at last. 

29th Dec. 1806. 



ON REVISITING HARROW. 

[Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a 
wrticular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a me- 
Borial Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the au- 
thor destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the 
»Uce in 1807, he wrote under it the following stanzas.] 



Here once engaged the stranger's view 

Young Friendship's record, simply traced ; 
Few were her words, — but yet, though few, 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 
2. 
Deeply she cut— but, not erased, 

The characters were still so plain, 
That Friendship once return'd and gazed,— 
Till Memory hail'd the words again. 
3. 
Repentance placed them as before; 

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more. 
That Friendship thought it still the same. 
4. 
Tbus might the Record now have been ; 
Ihit, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour. 
Or Friendship's tears. Pride rush'd between. 
And blotted out the line for ever ! 



•AMITIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AXLES. 
1. 
Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth. 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings: 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 
Where first my heart responsive beat,— 
"Friendship is Love without his wings!" 
2. 
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 

What moments have been mine! 
Now, half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now, bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
My soul, enraptured with the past. 

To one idea f-^ndly clings ; 
Friendship! tha thought is all thine own. 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone, 
* Friendship is Love without his wings '' 
3. 
Where yonaer yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
tJnheeded heaves a single grave. 
Which teii-J the common tale; 



Round this unconcious schoolboys stray 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From j'onder studious mansion rings; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove 

"Friendship is Love without his wings!" 
4. 
Oh Love! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid; 
My hopes, my dreams, ray heart was tbin«, 

But these are now decay'd ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind. 

Except, alas! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away! delusive power. 
Thou Shalt not haunt my coming hour; 

"Unless, indeed, without thy wings I" 

5. 

Seat of my youth! thy distant spire 

Recalls each scene of joy; 
My bosom glows with former fire,— 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill. 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings i 
Again, as once, in converse gay. 
Each dear associate seems to say 

" Friendship is love without his wings 1" 

C. 
My Lycus ! wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain; 
AflTection for a time may sleep. 

But, oh, 't will wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we aaeet 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

"Friendship is Love without his wings!" 

7. 
In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew. 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true. 

Twined with my heart's according strings i 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my breast shall wake, 

"Friendship, the power deprived of wings T 

8. 
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours. 

My memory and my hope; 
Your worth a lasting love insures, 

Unfetter'd in its scope; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung. 
With aspect fair and ho-ney'd tongue. 

Let Adulation wait on kings. 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

"Friendship is Love without his wings." 

9. 
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward, 

To me no baj's belong; 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies 
Me the enchantrp= ever fliee, 



mSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



743 



W'Tiose heart and not whose fancy sings: 
Simple and young, I dare not feign, 
aiine be llie rude yet heartfelt strain, 

"Friendship is Love without liis wings!" 

December, 1S06. 



TO MY SON, 

1. 
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue. 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away, 
Recall a scene of former joy. 
Anil touch thy Father's heart, my Boy 1 

2. 
And thou canst lisp a father's name— 
Ah, William were thine own the same, 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy. 
And pardon all the past, my Boy. 

3. 
Her lowly grave the turf has prest. 
And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 
Derision sneers upon thy birth, 
And yields thee scarce a name on earth; 
Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 
A Father's heart is thine my Boy! 

4. 
Why, let the world unfeeling frown. 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy! 

5. 
Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere h^If my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son ; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy! 

6. 
Although so 3-oung thy heedless sire, 
Vouth will not damp parental fire; 
And, weit thou still less dear to me. 
While Helen's form revives in thee, 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy! 

1S07. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 

loHN Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A Carrier, who carried his can to his mouth well; 
He carried so much, arti he carried so fast. 
He could carry no more— so Avas carried at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one. 
He could not ca^^v off, — so he 's now carri-on. 

Sept. 1807. 



FRAGMENT. 

iThe foUo-.ving lines form the conclusion of a poena written by Lord By. 
ron nntler the melancholy impression that he should soon die.] 

Forget this world, my restless sprite. 
Turn turn thy thoughts to heaven: 



There must thou sC'On direct thy flight. 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow down beneath th' Almighty's Throne,— 

To him address t!iy trembling prayer: 
He, who is merciful and just. 
Will not reject a child of du»t. 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light! to thee I call, 

My soul is dark within; 
Thou, who canst maiK the sparrow fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Who calin'st the elemental war. 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; 
And, since I soon must ceise to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

Ib07 



TO MRS. ***, 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QOTTTING ENGIANB 
IN THE SPRING. 

When man, expell'd fro.Ti Eden's bowers 
A moment linger'd near the gate. 

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours. 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But wandering on through distant climes, 
He learnt to bear his load of grief; 

Just gave a sigh to other times. 
And found in busier scenes relief 

Thus, Mary, will it be with me. 
And I must view thy charms no more; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise. 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my paradise 
Without the wish of dwelling there. 

Dec, 2, 180e 



A LOVE-SONG, 

Remind me not, remind me not, 
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours 
When all my soul was given to thee 
Hours that may never be forgot. 
Till time unnewes our vital powers. 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget — canst thou forget. 
When playing with thy golden hair. 
How quick thy fluttering h';art did moir 
Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet. 
With eyes so languid, breast so fair. 
And lips, though silent, breathing love 

When thus reclining on my breast, 
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet 
As half reproach'd yet raised desirn. 
And still we near and nearer prest, 
And still our glowing lips would race*. 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would clomm 
And bid their lids each oth^^i &eek 
^''eiling the azure orbs below 



744 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While their long lashes' darkening gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 

I dreamt last night our love return'd. 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phanta-jy 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd. 
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not, 

. Of hours which, though for ever gone. 

Can still a pleasing dream restore. 
Till thou and I shall be forgot, 

And senseless as the mouldering stone 

Which tells that we shall lie no more. 



STANZAS 
TO ******* 

There was a time, I need not name. 
Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 

When all our feelings were the same 
As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour when first thy tongue 
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine. 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine. 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this— 
To think how all that love hath flown ; 

Transient as every faithless kiss. 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew. 
When late I heard thy ips declare, 

In accents once imagined true, 
Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes! my adored, yet most unkind! 

Though thou wilt never love again. 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be. 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine! 



TO *****. 

And wilt thou weep when I am low? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so— 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My neart is sad, my hopes are gone, 
My blood runs coldly through my breast; 

y^nd when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet nietninks a gleam of peace 
Vioih through my cloud of anguish shine; 

*nd for awhile my sorrows cease. 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh lady ! blessed be that tear- 
It falls for one who cannot weep: 

?utn previous drops are doubly dear 
■"o those whose eye? no tear can steep 



Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine; 

But beauty's self hath ceased *o charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? 

Sweet lady! speak those words again; 
Yet if they griave thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



SONG. 



Fill the goblet again, for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to iw 

core; 
Let us drink!— who would not ?— since, through lifes 

varied round. 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; 
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark-rolling eye; 
I have loved!— who has not?— but what heart can de- 
clare 
That pleasure existed while passion was there? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its 

spring. 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends!— who has not?— but what tongue will 

avow ? 
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst 

change : 
Thou grow'st old^who does not? — but on earth what 

appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow. 

Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 

Yv^e are jealous!— who 's not ?— thou hast no such al 

loy ; » 

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past. 
For refuge we fly to tlie goblet at last ; 
There we find — do we not? — in the flow of the soul. 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth. 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, was she not ?— but the goblet we kiai, 
And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Long life to the grape! for when summer is floi n 

The age of our nectar shall gladden our own ; 

We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins b^ fXl 

given. 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



STANZAS 

TO * * *, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast. 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; 
And I must from this land be goi:e. 
Because I cannot love but one. 



But could I be what I have been. 
And could I =ee what I have seen- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



745 



Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my wannest wishes Dlest — 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of it again; 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face. 
And even in crowds am still alone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And I will seek a foreign home ; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds riome hospitable hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe ; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee. 
There's not an eye will weep for me; 
There's not a kind congenial heart. 
Where I can claim the meanest part; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone. 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene. 

Of what we are, and what we've been, 

Would whelm some soft* hearts with woe— 

But mine, alas! has stood the blow; 

Yet still beats on as it begun. 

And never truly loves but one. 

\nd who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see. 
And why that early love was crost. 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I 've tried another's fetters too. 
With charms perchance as fair to view; 
And I would fain have loved as well. 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'T would soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Vet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone. 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

Falmouth Roads, June 30th, 1809. 
1. 
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going. 

Our embargo's off at last. 
Favourable breezes blowing 
Bend the canvas o'er the mast 

3 a ^ 99 



From aloft the signal's streaming, 
Hark! the farewell gun is fired: 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that our time 's expired. 
Here 's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking. 
Cases cracking, 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket. 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

2. 
Now our boatmen quit their mooring. 

And all hands must ply the oar; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering. 

We 're impatient — push from shore. 
"Have a care! that case holds liquor- 
Stop the boat — I 'm sick — oh Lord !** 
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sickw 
Ere you've been an hour on board" 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants. Jacks; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling, 
Stuck together close as wax. — 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 



Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the captaia, 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; 
Passengers their berths are clapt m. 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
"Heyday! call you that a cabin? 

Why, 'tis hardly three feet square; 
Not enough to stow dueen Mab in — 
Who the deuce can harbour there?" 
" Who, sir ? plentv— 
Nobles twenty 
Did at once my vessel fill."— 
"Did they?" Jesus, 
How you squeeze us! 
Would to God they did so still: 
Then I'd scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 



Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs- 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! 

Here 's a rope's-end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 
As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses. 
Vomits forth — and damns our souls. 
" Here 's a stanza 
On Braganza— 
Help!"— "a couplet?"— "No, a cup 
Of warm water — " 
"What's the matter?" 
"Zounds! my liver's coming up, 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 



Now at length we're off for Turkej 
Lord knows when we snail come t 

Breezes foul and tempests murky 
May unship u? :n a crack. 



740 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But, since life at most a jest is, 

As philosophers allow. 
Still to laugh by far the best is; 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things. 
6reat and small things, 
Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
While we 're quaffing. 
Let 's have laughing — 
Who the devil cares for more? 
Some good wine! and who would lack it. 
Even on board the Lisbon Packet? 



LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT OR- 
CHOMENUS. 

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN: — 

"Fair Albion smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art: 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim: 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING 
REPLY :— 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 

•ymes on our nrmes, but wisely hides his own: 
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
His name would bring more credit than his verse. 



1811. 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE 

A FARCICAL EPIGRAM. 

Sept. 14 

Good plays are scarce. 

So Moore writes farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle— 

We knew before 

That Little's Moore, 
But now 'tis Moore that's little. 



EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON, 

m AKSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE 
CHEERFUL AND TO " BANISH CARE." 

Ne\v^tead Abbey, Oct. II, 1811. 

" Oh i banish care"— such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights. 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
When present, past, and future lower, 
When all I loved is changed or gone. 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one. 
Whose every thought— but let them pass 
Thou know'st I am nut what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men revere, 
fiy all unto thy bosom dear, 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above. 
Speak — spexk of anything but love. 

Tverc ong to tell, and vain to hear, 
'I'he t* 3 of one who scorns a tear; 
.\nd there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has suffer'd more than we!l 
T would suit philosophy to tell. 



I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side,— 
Have seen the infant, which she bore. 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore 
When she and I in youth have smiled 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain. 
And / have acted well my part. 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return'd the freezing glance she gave, 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;- 
Have kiss'd, as if without design. 
The babe w^hich ought to have been mine, 
And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass— I 'II w-hine no more 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
The world befits a busy brain, — 
I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year, 
When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
Thou hear'st of one, whose deep'ning crinMS 
Suit with the sablest of the times. 
Of one, whom love nor pity sways. 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise 
One, who in stern ambition's pr.de. 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside, 
One rank'd in some recording page 
With the Avorst anarchs of the age. 
Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause. 
Nor will the effect forget the cause. 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS. 

JIfay, 1S13 

1. 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sen*, 

(I hope I am not violent,) 

Nor men nor o;ods knew what he meant. 

2. 
And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 
To common sense his thoughts could raise- 
Why would they let him print his lays? 

3. 



To me, divine Apollo, grant— 01 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
I 'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 

6. 
And thus to furnish decent lining. 
My own and others' bays I'm twining- 
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

' I lay my branch of laurel down, 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown 
Let every other bring his own." 

Lord Thmloufi Lina to tlr 



" I lay my branch of laurel down.^ 
Tlwu "lay thy branch of laurel down I" 
Why, what t^»ou 'st stole is not enow 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



747 



And, were it lawfully thine own, 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough. 

Or send i back to Doctor Donne- 
Were justice done to both, I trow. 

He 'd have but little, and thou— none. 
2. 
" Then thus to form JipoUo's crown." 
A crown! why, twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town. 

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers. 
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown. 

Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 
3. 
" Let every other bring his awn." 
When coals to Newcastle are carried. 

And owls sent to Athens as wonders. 
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried. 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel. 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir. 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 

And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

jVRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COMPANY 
WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN COLD BATH 
nELDS PRISON, MAY 19, 3813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,— 
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 
Bag; 
****** 

But now to my letter— to yours 'tis an answer — 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir. 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
[According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace! 
I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some 

codgers. 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers, 
\nd I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
And you '11 be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
MOORE. 

June, 1814. 
1. 

What say /.'"—not a syllable further in prose; 

'm your man " of all measures," dear Tom,— so, here 
goes ! 
H6re goes, for a swim on the stream o" old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 

flood. 
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud. 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap. 
And Southey's last Ptean has pillow'd his sleep;— 
Th\t " Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
Wj 'k'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea. 



Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza 
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) nevw 

man saw. 

2. 
The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fuseeu. 
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, — 
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het 

man, — 
And what dignity decks the flat face Df the greal 

man. 
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different graces, 



The Czar's look, I own, v/as much brighter and brisker 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; 
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in fcersey- 
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the 

Jersey, 
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With majesty's presence as those she invited. 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 

[Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and ifty 
lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented 
to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, I& 
is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and con. 
densation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, aJopt- 
ing a notion long prevalent, has at tributed to Professor Porson. There are, 
however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive" well worth pr». 
serving.] — Moore. 



The Devil return'd to hell by two. 

And he staid at home till five ; 
Where he dined on some homicides done in ragout. 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, 
And bethought himself what next to do; 

" And," quoth he, " I '11 take a drive. 
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night; 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I'll see how my favourites thrive. 
2. 
" And what shall I ride in T' quoth Lucifer, then— 

"If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men. 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish'd again and again. 

And at present my purpose is speed; 
To see my manor as much as I may. 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 

3. 
" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour-place ; 
But they're lent to two friends, who make oic 
amends 

By driving my favourite pace: 
And they handle thf ir reins with such a grao«, 
I have something for both at the end of their laep 

4. 
" So now for the earth to take my chance." 

Then up to the earth sprung he; 
And making a jump from Moscow to Frano? 

He stepp'd across the sea. 
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road. 
No very greut way from a bishop's abode 



fib 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But first as le flew, [ forgot to say, 
That he hovcrM a moment upon his way 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
Anil so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, 
And so soft to his ear wa? the cry of despair, 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain : 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done half so well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, 

That it blush'd like the waves of hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: 
"Methinks they have here little need of met" 



But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing; 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying— 
As round her fell her long fair hair : 
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there 1 
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut. 
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying : 
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done, 

And the fall of the vainly flying ! 

***** * 

10. 
Cut tlie Devil has reach'd our cliflTs so white, 

And what did he there, I pray? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day; 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal. 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
Who bid pretty well— but they cheated him, though ! 

11. 
The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
St) instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 

And seized him by the throat: 
"Aha," quoth he, "what have we here? 
'Tis a new barouche, and an anc-ient peer!" 
So he sat him on his box again. 

And bade him have no fear. 
But be true to his club, and staunch to his rein, 

His brothel, and his beer; 
"Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
I would rather see him here." 
****** 
17. 
The Devil gat next to Westminster. 

And he turn'd " to the room" of the Commons; 
But he heard, as he proposed to enter in there, 

That "the Lords" had received a summons; 
And ne thought as a " quondam aristocrat," 
lie might peep at the peers, though to hear them 

were flat ; 
\iid he walk'd up the house so like one of our 

own, 
I'hdi they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 

18. 
Up. saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 
And Johnnv of Norfolk— a man of some size— 
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; 



And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would not rise, 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; 
And he heard— which set Satan himself a staring* 
A certain chief justice say something like sweatf 

ing. 
And the Devil was shock'd— and quoth he, " 

must go. 
For I find we have much better manners below 
If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order. 
December, 1813. 



ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TCt 
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

There was a day— there was an hour. 

While earth was Gaul's— Gaul thine— 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all time 
Despite some passing clouds of crime 

18. 
But thou forsooth must be a king 

And don the purple vest. 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear. 

The star — the string — the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say. 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away? 

10. 
Where may the wearied eye repose, 

W^hen gazing on the great; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes— one— the first— the last— the best— 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 

To make man blush there was but one] 

.'ipril, 1814 



TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 

And say'sl thou that I have not felt, 

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from raet 
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 

On one unbroken dream of thee? 
But love like ours must never be, 

And I will learn to prize thee less; 
As thou hast fled, so let me flee. 

And change the heart thou raay'st not bleas 

They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd. 

Of late, another's charms to woo. 
Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd 

That thou wert banish'd from my view, 
Clara ! this struggle — to undo 

What thou hast done too well, for me 
This mask before the babbling crew — 

This treachery— was truth to thiMf 



I have not wept while thou wert gone. 

Nor worn one look of sullen woe ; 
But sought, in many, all that one 

(Ah! need I name her?) could bestow. 
It is a duty which I owe 

To thine — to thee — to man — to God, 
To crush, to quench this guilty glow, 

Ere yet the path of crime be trod 

But since my breast is not so pure, 

Since still the vulture tears my heart. 
Let me this agony endure. 

Not thee — oh! dearest as thou art 1 
In mercy, Clara ! let us part, 

And I will seek, yet know not how, 
To shun, in time, the threatening dart ; 

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 

But thou must aic^ me in the task. 

And nobly thus exert thy power; 
Then spurn me hence — 'tis all I ask — 

Ere time mature a guiltier hour ; 
Ere wrath's impending vials shower 

Remorse redoubled on my head ; 
Ere fires unquenchably devour 

A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 

Deceive no more thyself and me. 

Deceive not better hearts than mine; 
Ah I shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee. 

From woe like ours — from shame like thine? 
And, if there be a wrath divine, 

A pang beyond this fleeting breath. 
E'en now all future hopes resign. 

Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
1. 
I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame ; 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may im- 
part 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 

2. 
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness 

cease? 
We repent— we abjure — we will break from our 

chain, — 
We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 

3. 
Ohl thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one!— forsake, if thou wilt;— 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it— whatever tliou mayest. 

4. 
And stem to the haughty, but humble to thee. 
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be; 
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet, 
IVith thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

5. 
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign— 
Thy lip shall replv, not to them, but to mine. 

May, 1814. 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE LECITED AT THE 
CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain 
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame— no tyrant could command? 
That race is gone— but still their children breathe. 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath: 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 
And England! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, 
But now 'tis only shed for fame and Ihee ! 
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim. 
But give support— the world hath given him fame I 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led, 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod. 
To us bequeath — 't is all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse: 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze. 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song. 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave. 

'T is Heaven— not man— must charm away the woe 

Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ■ 

Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 

Of half its bitterness for one so dear; 

A nation's gratitude perchance ma}' spread 

A tlinrnless pillow for the widow'd head; 

May lighten well her heart's maternal care. 

And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 

May, 1814. 



ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING THB 
PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY 
TO MRS. MEE. 
When the vain triumph of the imperial 'jord, 
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd. 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust. 
That left a likeness of the brave or just; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? 
What spread from face to face that wondering aii7 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there! 
That absence proved his worth,— that absence fixM 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd; 
And more decreed his glory to «ndure. 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd lew 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits. 
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart, 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the giivt 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 



75© 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Yet coiijfort still one selfish thought imparts. 
We los( the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? 
A garden with all flowers— except the rose;— 
A fount that only wants Us living stream ; 
And night, with every star save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the presen forms shall be. 
That turn from tracing them 'o dream of thee ; 
And more on that recall'd reseu>blance pause. 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
vVith all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth— the grace of mien— 
The eye that gladdens— and the brow serene; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering ha.', 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead moro than fair 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose. 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Borne charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And these must wait till every charm is gone 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none, 
I'hat dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
Li envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
n.<) hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 

July, 1814. 



TO BELSHAZZAR, 
1. 

Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn. 
Nor in thy sensual fullness fall : 

Behold! while yet before thee burn 
The graven words, the glowing wall. 

Many a despot men miscall, 
Crown'd and anointed from on high; 

But thou, the weakest, worst of all— 
Is it not written, thou must die ? 
2. 

Go! dash the roses from thy brow- 
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them; 

Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 
More than thy very diadem, 

Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :— 
Then throw the worthless bauble by. 

Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 
And learn like better men to die. 
3. 

Oh' early m the balance weigh'd, 
And ever light of word and worth, 

Whose soul expired ere youth decay'vi. 
And left thee but a mass of earth. 

I'o see thee moves a scorner's mirth : 
But tears in Hope's averted eye 

Lament that even thou hadst birth- 
Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



HEBREW MELODIES, 
tw the vallej of waters we wept o'er the day 
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey ; 
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay. 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away, 
riie fiong they demanded in vain — it lay still 
n out souls as the wind that hatn died on the hill, 



They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill. 
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of theirskill. 

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree 
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be 
Our hands may be fetter'd, our tears still are free. 
For our God and our glory, and Sion! for thee. 

October, 1814. 



They say that Hope is happiness, 
But genuine Love must prize the past; 

And Memory wakes the thoughts that bles*- 
They rose the first, they set the last 

And all that Memory loves the most 
Was once our only hope to be; 

And all that hope adored and lost 
Hath melted into memory. 

Alas! it is delusion all. 

The future cheats us from afar, 
Nor can we be what we recall, 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 

October, J814. 

LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF "T3H 
SIEGE OF CORINTH." 
In the year since Jesus died for men, 
Eighteen hundred years and ten. 
We ws>re a gallant company. 
Riding j'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
Oh! but we went merrily! 
We forded the river and clomb the high hill, 
Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed; 
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote. 
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. 
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles sfxead 
As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
Fresh we woke upon the morrow; 

All our thoughts and words had scope, 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no a rrow. 
We were of all tongues a* I creeds ;— 
Some were those who coun,.rd beads. 
Some of mosque, and some of church. 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search. 

Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone. 
And some are rebels on the hills* 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments rallieti. 
And pays in blood oppression's ills; 

And some are in a far country. 
And some all restlessly at home; 

But never more, oh! never we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily. 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the mall. 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air. 

A wild bird, and a wanderer. 

* The last tidin?s recently heard of Dervish (one nf the Amaoots »h»- <M 
lowed nie) sta'e him to be in revolt upon the mountains, it (be heaj cf Wi 
of the bands cominoq in that ccuntry in times of tK able 



mSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



751 



'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

Tlie few who may endure my lay. 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger— will thou follow now. 

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow? 

December, 1815. 



EXTRACT FROM AiV UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

Could I remount the river of my years. 

To the first fountain of our smiles and tears 

I would not trace again the stream of hours 

Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers, 

But bid it flow as now — until it glides 

Into the number of the nameless tides. 

****** 

What is this death?— a quiet of the heart? 
The whole of that of which we are a part ? 
For life is but a vision— what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me. 
And being so— the absent are the dead. 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead— for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided— equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants— are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
Or have they their own language? and a sense 
Of breathless being? darkened and intense 
>s midnight in her solitude?— Oh Earth! 
Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they birth' 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave. 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave. 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 
****** 

October, 1816. 



TO AUGUSTA. 

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine. 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same— 
A lov7:d regret which 1 would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny,— 
^. world to roam through, and a home with thee, 
n. 
The first were nothing— had I still the last 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 



A strange doom is thy father's son's, and pasl 

Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; 

Reverssd for him our grandsire's* fate of yore,- 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
III. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been 

In other elements, and on the rocks 

Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 

I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks. 

The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 

My errors with defensive paradox ; 

I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

IV. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward 
My whole life was a contest since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'o 
The gift,— a fate, or will, that walk'd astray; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay, 
But now I fain would for a time survive. 

If but to see what next can well arrive. 
v. 
Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old; 
And when I look on this the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of slight patience ;— not in vain, 

Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

VI. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

VII. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brook* 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books. 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love— but none like thee. 

VIII. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes insjnrei 
Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
For much I view which I could most desiie, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold. 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

IX. 

Oh that thou wert but with me!— but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one rtgret; 



* Admiral Byron was remarkable for never makinsr a voyage wither" 
tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious naitne of "Fo^ 
weather Jack." 

" But though it were tempest-tost, 
Still his bark could not be lost." 
He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) a<4 
subseguently circumnavigated the world, many years after at coauniViier 
of a similar expedition. 



•752 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tc;eru may be others wiiich I less may show;— 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
T feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
<\nd the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

X. 

[ did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
Ere that or thou can fade these ej'es before; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

XI. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply— 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky. 
To see her gentle face without a mask. 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister— till I look again on thee. 

XII. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one : 
And that I would not;— for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun, 
The earliest— even the only paths for me— 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept; 
f had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

XIII. 

With false ambition what had I to do? 
Little with love, and least of all with fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make— a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over— I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day; 
Having survived so many things that were; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

XV. 

And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless,— for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal. 
And for the present I would not benumb 
My feelings farther.— Nor shall I conceal 
That with ali this I still can look around 
Ind worship Nature with a thought profound. 

XVI. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign; 
It is the same, together or apart. 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined— let death come slow or fast, 
rise tie which bound the first endures the last ! 

October, 1816. 

• Thf. Uk.*; ■;» Newstead AbDev 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

1. 

My boat is on the shore. 
And my bark is on the sea , 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee! 



Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 

And a smile to those who hate; 
And, whatever sky's above me, 

Here 's a heart for every fate. 
3. 
Though the ocean roar around hae. 

Yet it still shall bear me on; 
Though a desert should surround me. 

It hath springs that may be won. 
4. 
Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasp'd upon the brink. 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
5. 
With that water as this wine. 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

July, 181? 



STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO. 
I. 

River, that rollest by the ancient walls 
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me; 



What if thy deep and ample stream should be 

A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. 

Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed 1 
3. 
What do I say ?— a mirror of my heart ! 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 
4. 
Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not for evef 

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river 1 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, 
5. 
But left long wrecks behind, and now again. 

Borne in our old unchanged career, we m:ve; 
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, 

And I— to loving one I should not love. 
6. 
The current I behold will sweep benoath 

tHer nativewalls, and murmur a-f her feet; 
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breaibe 

The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heal. 
7. 
She will look on thee, — I have look'd on thee, 

Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'ei 
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 

Without the inseparable sigh for her! 



The Countess GuiccioU 




JrnM-n fy W. Ilrocl^xdarc J833 



Znoravid. fyJJhck . 




MISCELIANEOUS POEMS. 



75a 



8. 
His bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,— 

Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now: 
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 

That happy wave repass me in its flow! 
9. 
The wave that bears my tears returns no more: 

Will she return bv whoui that wave shall sweep 1 — 
Ikith tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 

I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 
10. 
But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth: 
But the distraction of a various lot. 

As various as the climates of our birth. 

11. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land. 

Born far beyond tne mountains, but his b'ood 
Is all meriuian, as if never fann'd 

By the bleak wind tnat chills the polar flood, 
12. 
My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 

I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 
In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 

A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 
13. 
Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young — 

Live as I lived, and love as I h~ve loved ; 
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 

June, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH 



0» THE REPEAL 'V 



/"RD EDAVARD FITZGERALd'S FOR. 
^ITURE. 

To be ine father of the fatherless. 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and 
raise 

His offspring, who expired in other days 

make thy sire's sway by a kuigdom less, — 
"^lis is to be a monarch, and repress 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

T)ismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, 
for who would lift a hand, except to bless? 

Were it not easy, sire? and is't not sweet 

■' o make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus 

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; 
despot thou, and yet thy people free. 

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

August, 1819. 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 

TiviNSLATION FROlSl THE INFEKNO OF DANTE, 
CANTO FIFTH. 

'The land where I was born sits by the seas. 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
With all his followsrs, in search of peace. 

Lovr, which the gentle heart soon apprehends. 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 
Remits, seized me with wish to piease, so strong, 
That IS thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 
3 11 100 



But Caina waits for him our life who ended:" 

These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.- 
Since first I listen'd to these souls offended, 

I bow'd my visage and so kept it till— 

( then I V 

"What think'st thou?" said the bard; \ when \ 
unbended. 
And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ili 

How many sweet thoughts, what strange ecstacica 

Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" 
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes. 

And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 

Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs. 

By what and how thy love to passion rose. 

So as his dim desires to recognize?" 
Then she to me : " The greatest of all woes 
( recall to viind ) 

Is to I remind us of ] our happy days 
( this I 

In misery, and ( that ( thy teacher knows. 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 

Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
( relate ) 

I will ( do* even S as he who weeps and says.— — 
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 

Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolour'd by that reading were ; 

t overthrew ) 

But one point only wholly | us o'erthrew; j 
( desired ) 

When we read the j long-sigh'd for ( smile of her, 
( a fervent ) 

To be thus kiss'd by such / devoted J lover. 

He who from me ca>* be divided ne'er 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over-. 

Accursed was the book and he who wrote I 

That day we did no further leaf uncover. 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot. 

The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 

I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 
And fell down even as a dead body falls." 

JJfarcA, 182& 



STANZAS, 

TO HER WHO BEST CAN UNDERSTAMD THEU 

Be it so! we part for ever! 

Let the past as nothing be ; — 
Had I only loved thee, never 

Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 

Had I loved and thus been slighted. 
That I better could have borne ;- 

Love is quell'd, when unrequited. 
By the rising pulse of scorn. 

Pride may cool what passion heated. 
Time will tame the wayward will; 

But the heart in friendship cheated 
Throbs with woe's most maddening wiriH 

Had I loved, I now might hate thee. 

In ths* hatred solace seek, 
Might f^xuM to execrate thee, 

And, in words, my vengeance WTedR. 



* In some of the editions, it is "diro,''in others " faro ;" — an ostftidfi iV 
ference between "saying" and "doing," which I know ni^ bc^ *<i ieayl 
Mk Foscolo. The d — -d editions driv me aiad 



754 



iSYRON'S WORKS. 



But there is a silent sorrow, 
Which can find no vent in speech, 

Which disdains relief to borrow 
From the lieights that song can reach. 

Like a clankless chain enthralling,— 
Like the sleepless dreams that mock, — 

Like the frigid ice-drops falling 
From the surf-surrounded rock. 

Such the cold and sickening feeling 
Thou hast caused this heart to know, 

Stabb'd the deeper by concealing 
From the world its bitter woe. 

Olice it fondly, proudly, deemed thee 
All that fancy's self could paint, 

Once it honour'd and esteem'd thee. 
As its idol and its saint! 

More than woman thou wast to me; 

Not as man I look'd on thee; — 
Why like woman then undo me ! 

Why " heap man's worst curse on me." 

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 
Friendship's smile, and woman's art. 

And in borrow'd beauty blooming, 
Trifling with a trusted heart! 

By that eye which once could glisten 

With opposing glance to me ; 
By that ear which once could listen 

To each tale I told to thee : — 

By that lip, its smile bestowing. 
Which could soften sorrow's gush;— 

By that cheek, once brightly glowing 
With pure friendship's well-feigned blush; 

By all those false charms united,— 
Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, 

And, without compunction, blighted 
What " thou wouldst not kindly kill." 

Yet I curse thee not in sadness. 
Still, I feel how dear thou wert; 

Oh! T could not — e'en in madness — 
Doom thee to thy just desert ! 

Live ! and when my life is over. 
Should thine own be lengthen'd long. 

Thou may'st then, too late, discover 
By thy feelings, all my wrong. 

When thy beauties all are faded,— 
When thy flatterers fawn no more,— 

Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
Some regardless reptile's store, — 

Ere that hour, false syren, hear me! 

Thou may'st feel what I do now. 
While my spirit, hovering near thee, 

Whispers friendship's broken vow. 

But 'tis useless to upbraid thee 
With thy past or present state; 

What thou wast, my fancy made thee, 
Whac thoj art, I know too late. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

1. 
Yov have ask'd for a verse ;— the request 

It, a rhymer 'twere strange to deny; 
*;it mj^ Hippocrene was but my breast, 

\m\ mj" feelings (its fountain) are dry. 



Were I now as I was, I had sung 
What Lawrence has painted so well; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 



[ am ashes where once I was fire, 

And the bard in my bosom is dead; 
What I loved I now merely admire, 

And my heart is as gray as my bead. 
4. 
My life is not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plough. 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

5. 

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
To sing what I gaze on in vain : 

For sorrow has torn from my lyre 
The string which was worthy the strain. 
Jlpril, 1823. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 
1. 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

2. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that u 

wrinkled ? 
'T is but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoaryl 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 

3. 
Oh Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrasea, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

4. 
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround theei 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

December, 1821. 



IMPROMPTU. 

ON LADY BLESSINGTON EXPRESSING HER INTENTION Ofi 

TAKING THE VILLA CALLED " IL PARADISO," 

NEAR GENOA. 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 

The reclaim'd Paradite 
Should be free as the former from evil ; 

But if the new Eve 

For an apple should grieve. 
What mortal would not play the Devil?* 

jSpril, JB23. 



* The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jesf to himsej 
Takin? it into their heads that IhisVii'.a ha'l been fixed on for h s evm leai 
dence, they said, " II Diavolo e ancr'a entrato ia Paradisi)." -A i» 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose 
vVliat ne'er was meant for other ears? 

Why thus destroy thine own repose 
And dig the source of future tears ? 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent m.aid. 
While lurking envious foes will smile, 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh, 
If thou believ'st what striplings say: 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
Nor fall the specious spoilers prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast. 
The words man utters to deceive? 

Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost. 
If thou can'st venture to believe. 

While now amongst thy female peers 
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil? 

These tales in secret silence hush. 
Nor make thyself the public gaze: 

What modest maid without a blush 
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates each fond conceit — 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 

For she who takes a soft delight 
These amorous nothings in revealing. 

Must credit all we say or write. 
While vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids me reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

January 15, 1807. 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

THon Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
days. 

Young offspring of Fancy, 't is time we should part ; 
rhen rise on the gale this the last of my lays, 

The coldest eff"usion w^hich springs from my heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more. 
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing ; 

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
Yet even these themes are departed for ever; 

No more beams the eyes which my dream could in- 
spire, 
My visions are flown, to return,— alas, never! 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong! 

When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, 
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that aiu flown? 
Ah. no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 



Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? 

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move 

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done. 
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sires? 

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! 
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! 

Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast— 
'T is hush'd ; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past, 
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate n«. 
more. 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
Since early affection and love is o'ercast ; 

Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. 

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er 
meet; 
If our songs have been languid, they surely are fewj 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 
The present — which seals our eternal Adieu. 

18G7. 



TO ANNE. 



Oh! Anne, your offences to me have been grievous; 

I thought from my wrath no atonement could save 
you; 
But woman is made to command and deceive us — 

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 

I vow'd I could ne'er for a Kioment respect you. 
Yet thought that a day's separation was long: 

When we met, I determin'd again to suspect you— 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation. 
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you ; 

I saw you — my anger became admiration; 
And now, all my wish, all my hope 's to regain you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention . 

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you;— 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension. 

Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you 
January 16, 1807. 



TO THE SAME. 

Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decrewi 
The heart which adores you should wish to dissever: 

Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,— 
To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 

By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthiown. 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined. 

The rage of the tempest united must =veathei, 
My love and my life were by nature design'd 

To flourish alike, or to perish together. 

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the fates have «» 
creed. 

Your lover should bid you a lasting adif.Ui 
Ti'.l Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed. 

His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 



756 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, 

' VAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'" 

Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: 

A devilish deal more sad than witty! 
Why we should weep I can't find out, 

Unless for thee we weep in pity- 
Yet there is one I pity more ; 

And much, alas! I think he needs it: 
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, 

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
May once be read— but never after: 

Yet their effect's by no means tragic. 
Although by far too dull for laughter. 

But would you make our bosoms bleed, 
And of no common pang complain — 

If you would make us weep indeed, 
"Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. 

March 8, 1807. 



ON FINDING A FAN. 

In one who felt as once he felt. 

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame ; 
But now his heart no more will melt, 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low, 
The aid which once improved their light. 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 
Now quenches all their blaze in night. 

Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
As many a boy and girl remembers — 

While every hope of love expires, 
Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

The first, though noi, a spark survive. 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
No touch can bid its warmth return. 

rvr, if it chance to wake again. 
Not always dootn'd its heat to smother. 

It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
Its former warmth around another. 



1807. 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* 

YouNS Oakl when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Buch. sucn was my hope, when, in infancy's years. 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: 

1 tiey are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,— 
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 



«f L(jri Byron, on his Arst arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak 
Bi the garden, and nourished the fancy, that aj the tree flourished so should 
m~ On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, 
be founJ the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ; — hence these 
tines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took posses- 
liun. hr one day noticed it and said to the servant who was \v ith him, " Here 
a a fine yoiii}g "oak; but it must be cut down as it grows in an improper 
place "—" I hope not, sir," replied the man ; "for it'stlie one that my 
•ord was so fond of, because he set it hiniself." The Colonel has, of course, 
jikcn ever}- possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as 
" The i;>r6n Oat," and promises to share, in after times, the celebrity ol 
Inakspeare's mulberrv, and Pope's w'Uow. — Moore 



I left thee, my Oak, and, since that, fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mina is tha powt 
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expiis 

Oh! hardy thou wert — even now little care 
Might revive thy young head, and tliy wounds genx, 
heal: 

But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
For who could suppose that a stranger would feei 

Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for awhile; 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run. 
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, 

When Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh. live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, 
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decaj 

For still in thy bosom are life's eariy seeds, 
And still may thy branches their beauty display 

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, 
Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, 

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine 
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave 
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread 

Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot: 
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime 
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay. 

And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 

1807 



DEDICATION TO DON JUAN.t 



Bob Southey ! you 're a poet — Poet-laureate, 

And representative of all the race, 
Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at 

Last,— yours has lately been a common case,— 
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 
II. 

Which pye being open'd, they began to sing," 

(This old song and new simile holds good,) 

A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food; — 
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 

But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 
Explaining metaphysics to the nation— 
I wish he would explain his explanation. 

ni. 
You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know, 

At being disappointed in your wish 
To supersede all warblers here below, 

And he the only Blackbird in the dish; 

t This " Dedication" was suppressed, in 1S19, with T,ord Byron's reluctan 
consent; but, shortly after his death, its existence be(!»me notorious, .n cos 
sequence of an article in the Westminster Review, generally ascribed t» 
Sir John Hobhouse ; and, for several years, the verses /lave been selling a 
he streets as a broadside. It could, therefore, serw no purpose to excfuJ* 
thejn on the present occasion. — Moore. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 

An(i tutrble downward like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high. Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry. Bob! 

IV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion," 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages,) 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages; 

"i" is poetry — at least by his assertion. 

And may appear so when the dog-star rages — 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 

V. 

You— Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion 
From better company, have kept your own 

At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
Of one another's minds, at last have grown 

To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone; 

There is a narrowness in such a notion. 

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for 
ocean. 

VI. 

[ would not imitate the petty thought, 
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 

For all the glory your conversion brought, 
Since gold alone should not have been its price. 

You have your salary; was't for that you wrought? 
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.* 

You 're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 

And duly seated on the immortal hill. 

VII. 

Your bays may hide the boldness of your brows— 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes; — let them go — 

To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
And for the fame you would engross below, 

The field is universal, and allows 
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow: 

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try 

'Gainst you the question with posterity. 

VIII. 

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
Contend not with you on the winged steed, 

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses. 
The fame you envy, and the skill you need; 

And recollect a poet nothing loses 
In giving to his brethren their full meed 

Of merit, and complaint of present days 

Is not the certain path to future praise. 

IX. 

Fie that reserves his laurels for posterity 
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion ; 

A^nd although here and there some glorious rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 

The major part of such appellants go 

Fo— God knows where— for no one else can know. 

X. 

[f, fa.Men in evil days on evil tongues, 
MiUon appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 

If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs. 
And makes the word " Miltonic" mean ^'sublime" 



* Wordsworth's place nay be in the Customs — it is, I think, in that or 
the Excise— besides another at Lord Lonsdale's table, where this poetical 
charlatan and political parasite llclis up (he crumbs with a hardened alac- 
rity; the converted Jacobin having long subsided into the clownish syco- 
phant of the worst prejudices of the aristocracv. 

3r 2 



He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 

Nor turn his very talent to a crime. 
He did not lothe the Sire to laud the Son 
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 

Think'st thou, could he— the blind Old Man— arise 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze onse mora 

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 
Or be alive again— again all hoar 

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
And heartless daughters— worn — and pale — f*^ 
poor; 

Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ?J 

XII. 

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gor« 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore. 
The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want. 

With just enough of talent, and no more. 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
And ofter poison long already mix'd. 

XIII. 

An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile. 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 

Nor foes — all nations— condescend to smile, — 
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil. 
That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 

XIV. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade, 
And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid. 
States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind, 

Emasculated to the marrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind. 

Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
Eutropius of its many masters, — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 

XVI. 

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds. 

For I will never feel them ;— Italy ! 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 

Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee- « 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds. 

Have voices— tongues to cry aloud for me. 
Europe has slaves — allies— kings— armies still. 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

t " Pale, but not cadaverous ;" — Milton's two elder daughters are sala h 
have robbed him of his books, besides cheating and plaguing him m the 
economy of his house, &c. &c. His feelings on such an outrage, both as a 
parent and a scholar, must have been singularly painful. Hayiey lomparw 
him to Lear. See part third, Life of Milton, by W. Hayiey (or Hailey m 
spelt in the edition before me.) 
lOr,- 

" Wonld he subside into a hackMy Laureate — 
A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scorn'd Iscariot?" 
I doubt if " Laureate" and " Iscariot" be good rhymes, but must lay, u BOk 
Jonsoa did to Sylvester, who challenged him to rhyime with — 
" I, John Sylvester, 
Lay with your sister." 
Jonson answered, — " I, Ben Jonson, lay with vour /ife." Sylvestei aiwww 
ed, — '' That is not rhyme "■ -" No " said Ben Jonson ; " ba» ' if *ruM ■ 



758 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Meantime— Sir Laureate— I proceed to dedicate, 
In honest simple verse, this song to you, 

And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
'T is tliat I still retain my " bufl' and blue ;" 

My politics as yet are all to educate : 
Apostasy's so fasliionable, too, 

To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean 

'.s it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?* 
Venice, September 16, 1818. 



FRAGMENT 



ON THE BACK OF THE POET'S MS. OF CANTO 1. 

OF DON JUAN. 

r WOULD to heaven that I were so much clay, 
As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling- 

Because at least the past were pass'd away— 
And for the future— (but I write this reeling, 

^laving got drunk exceedingly to-day. 
So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 

I say — the future is a serious matter — 

And so— for God's sake— hock and soda-water! 



PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS,! 

BY DR. PLAGIARY. 

Balf stoleji, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice 
by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre.— Stolen parts mark- 
ed with the inverted commas of quotation— thus " ". 

** When energising objects men pursue," 

Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. 

•* A modest monologue you here survey," 

Hiss'd from the theatre the " other day," 

As if Sir Fretful wrote " the slumberous" verse. 

And gave his son " the rubbish" to rehearse. 

"Yet at the thing j'ou'd never be amazed," 

Knew you the rumpus which the author raised; 

** Nor even here your smiles would be represt," 

Knew you these lines — the badness of the best. 

"Flame! fire! and flame 1!" (words borrowed from 

Lucretius,) 
"Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues! 
* And sleeping pangs awake— and— but away" 
'Confound me if I know what next to say,) 
"Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 
And Master G— recites what Doctor Busby sings !— 
** If mighty things with small we may compare," 
(Translated from the grammar for the fair !) 
Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car," 
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." 
This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain." 
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 
"Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," 
And George and I will dramatize it for ye. 

' In arts and sciences our isle hath shown" 

fThis deep discovery is mine alone.) 

"Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" 

My ver^e— or I'm a fool— and Fame's a liar, 

■• Thep we invoke, your sister arts implore" 

With "smiles,'' and " lyres," and " pencils," and much 



These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 

Disgraces, too! "inseparable train!" 

" Three who have stolen their witching airs fruui 

Cupid" 
(You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid:) 
" Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, 
Now to produce in a "divine sestetto'\' ! 
" While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
"Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes! 
"Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," 
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 
"Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" 
(For this last line George had a holiday.) 
" Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
So says the manager, and so says I. 
"But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" 
Is this the poem which the public lost ? 
"True — true — that lowers at once our mouating 

pride ;" 
But lo ! — the papers print what you deride. 
"'Tis ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
'Tis twentij guineas, as they advertise! 
"A double blessing your rewards impart"— 
I wish I had them, tlien, with all my heart 
"Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," 
Why son and I both beg for your applause. 
"When in your fostering beams you bid us live," 
My next subscription list shall Say how much you give ■ 

October, 1812. 



* I iUule not to our friend Landor's hero, the traitor Count Julian, but to 
MbtioB's hero, vulgarly yclept " The Apostate." 

» Among the addresses sent in to the Drury tane Committee, was one by 
Uf. Bnsibr entitled ''A Mouologue." of which the above is a parody.— 
Vomrt 



[Instead of the lines to Inez, which now stand in the First Canto of Chi1<i« 
Harold, Lord Byron had originally written the following :] 

1. 

Oh never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies; 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eye be not of blue. 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses! 
2. 
Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll. 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel. 

And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
3. 
Our English maids are long to woo. 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Tlieir lips are slow a^ Love's ^'""fow'oo 
But born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
And who,— when fondly, fairly won,— 

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz? 
4. 
The Spanish maid is no coquette. 

Nor joj^s to see a lover tremble. 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble 
Her heart can ne'er be bought oi sold— 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will :iot bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long and love you dearly 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



lo'J 



The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
And should her lover press the plain. 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
6. 
And when, beneath the evening star. 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero. 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or join devotion's choral band, 

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper; 
7. 
In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder: 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam, 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 



FAREWELL TO MALTA. 

Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! 

Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat ! 

Adieu, the palace rarely entered ! 

Adieu, ye mansions where — I 've ventur'dl 

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 

(How suiely he who mounts you swears !) 

Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! 

Adieu, thou mob forever railing! 

Adieu, ye packets— without letters ! 

Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters ! 

Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, 

That gave me fever, and the spleen! 

Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, 

Adieu his Excellency's dancers! 

Adieu to Peter— whom no fault 's in, 

But could not teach a colonel waltzing : 

Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! 

Adieu red coats, and redder faces ! 

Adieu the supercilious air 

Of all that strut " en niilitaire !" 

I go— but God knows when, or why. 

To smoky towns and cloudy sky. 

To things (the honest truth to say) 

As bad — but in a different waJ^ — 

Farewell to these, but not adieu. 
Triumphant sons of truest blue! 
While either Adriatic shore, 
And fallen chiefs/ and fleets no more. 
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners. 
Proclaim you war and women's winners. 
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. 
And take ray rhyme— because 'tis "gratis." 

And now I 've got to Mrs. Fraser, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her— 
And were 1 vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line — or two — were no hard matter. 
As here indeed, I need not flatter- 



But she must be content Ic shine 
In better praises tl-.an iu iKine, 
With lively air, and open heart. 
And fashion's ease, without its art, 
Her hours can gaily glide along, 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. — 

And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us. 
Thou little military hothouse! 
I'll not offend with words uncivil. 
And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
But only staie from out my casement, 
And ask, for what is such a place meant? 
Then, in my solitary nook. 
Return to scribbling, or a book. 
Or take my physic while I 'm able 
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label,) 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. 
And bless the gods— I've got a fever 1 
May 26, 1811. 



Endorsement to the Deed of Separatic 
April of 1816. 

A YEAR ago you swore, fond she ! 

' To love, to honour,' and so forth : 
Such was the vow you pledged to me. 

And here 's exactly what 'tis worth. 

To Penelope, January 2, 1821 
This day, of all our days, has done 

The worst for me and you. — 
'Tis just six years since we were otw. 

And jive since we were two. 



in tht 



Who kill'd John Keats? 
* I,' says the Quarterly, 
So savage and Tartarly; 

' 'T was one of my feats." 

Who shot the arrow? 
'The poet-priest Milman 
(So ready to kill man,) 

Or Southey or Barrow. 



SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. 



As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blooo, 
So we, boys, we 
Will die fighting, or live free— 
And down with all kings but King Luddl 

II. 
When the web that we weave is compleic 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sworC 

We will fling the winding-sheet 

O'er the despot at our feel. 
And dye it deep in the gore he has voxiTt 

in. 
Though black as his heart its hue. 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 
Yet this is the dew 
Which the tree shall rnnew 
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd ! 



760 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE CHAIN I GAVE. 

(Fron: the Turkish.) 

Ibe chain I gave was fair to view, 

Tlie lute I added sweet in sound; 
The heart that offer'd both was true, 

And ill deserved the fate it found. 
Those gifts were charm'd by secret spell 

Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
And they have done their duty well, — 

Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 
That chain was firm in every link, 

But not to bear a strangers touch ; 
That lute was sweet— till thou couldst think 

In other hands its notes were such. 
Let him who from thy neck unbound 

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 
Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 

Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; 

The chain is broke, the music mute. 
Tis past— to them and thee adieu- 
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. 
RiND Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh; 
Here Harold lies— but where 's his Epitaph? 
[f such you seek, try Westminster, and view 
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 

Athens. 



El'IPAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET 
AND SHOEMAKER. 
Stranger ! behold, interr'd together. 
The souls of learning and of leather. 
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all: 
You '11 find his relics in a stall. 
His works were neat, and often found 
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound. 
Tread lightly— where the bard is laid 
He cannot mend the shoe he made; 
Yet is he happy in his hole. 
With verse immortal as his s»U. 
But still to business he held fast. 
And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 
Then who shall say so good a fellow 
Was only "leather and prunella?" 
For character— he did not lack it ; 
And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-it." 
Malta. May 16, 1811. 



»0 WE 'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING. 

1. 
So we'll go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright, 
u. 
for the sword outwears its sheath, 

And the soul wears out the breast. 
And the heart must pause to breathe. 

And love itself have rest, 
ni. 
rUough the night was made for loving 

And the day returns too soon, 
7et wf'll go no more a roving 

Ry the light of the moon 



LINES, 

ON UEARINO THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. 

And thou wert sad— yet I was not with thee; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow herel 
And is it thus?— it is as I foretold. 

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, 

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more. 

But in the after-silence on the shore. 
When all is lost, except a little life. 

I am too well avenged! — but 'twas my right; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite— 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 
Mercy is for the merciful! — if thou 
Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. 
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!— 

Yes I they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal, 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real! 

I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend. 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend; 
But thou in safe implacability 
Fladst naught to dread — in thy own weakness 

shielded. 
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should noj 
spare — 
And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that are- 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope— and all the better life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart. 
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife. 
And found a nobler duty than to part. 

But of thy virtues didst thou make a vire. 
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 
For present anger, and for future gold — 
And buying others' grief at any price. 
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, 
Tht early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
Did not still walk beside thee— but at times, 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
'Deceit, averments incompatible. 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits- -tlie significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretex* 
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd— 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No natter how, to the desired end— 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is won- 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done I 

Septembet 1836. 



mSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



761 



TO * * *. 

But once I dared to lift my eyes — 

To lift my eyes to thee ; 
And since that day, beneath the skies 

No other sights they see. 

In vain sleep shuts them in the night — 

The night grows day to me; 
Presenting idly to my sight 

What still a dream must be. 
A fatal dream — for many a bar 

Divides thy fate from mine ; 
And still my passions wake and war, 

But peace be still with thine. 



MARTIAL, Lib. I. Epio. L 

Hlc est, qaem legis, ille, quemre quiris, 
Tota Dotus in orbe Maxtialis, &c. 

He unto whom thou art so partial, 
Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial. 
The Epigrammatist: while living. 
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving; 
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it- 
Post-obits rarely reach a poet. 



EPIGRAM. 

In digging up your bones, Tom Paine 
Will. Cobbet has done well: 

You visit him on earth again, 
He'll visit you in hell. 



TO DIVES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Unhappy Dives: in an evil hour 
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst 1 
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power; 
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. 
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first. 
How wond'rous bright thy blooming morn arose 1 
But thou wert smitten with tli' unhallow'd thirst 
Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close 
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. 

1811. 



VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT 
HALESOWEN. 

When Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought," 

His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought," 

This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 

Supplied, and amply too, by innocence ; 

Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers. 

In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, 

Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see 

These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 

Severe the fate of modern fools, alas! 

When vice and folly mark them as they pass. 

Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall. 

The filth they leave still points out where they crawl. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 
dJQLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; 
«he reakes her own face, and does not make her 
rhymes. 

101 



NEW DUET. 

To the tune of " 'Why, how now, sancy jade?" 

Why, how now, saucy Tom? 

If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 

Remarks on Mister Campbell. 

ANSWER. 

Why, hov/ now. Parson Bowles? 

Sure the priest is maudlin ! 
{To the public) How can you, d — n yours 

Listen to his twaddling? 



EPIGRAMS. 



Oh, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now; 
Cato died for his country, so didst thou: 
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved. 
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved 

So Castlereagh has cut his throat!— The iTorst 
Of this is,— that his own was not the first. 

So He has cut his throat at last!— He! Who? 
The man who cut his country's long ago. 



THE CONQUEST. 



The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing ; 

Him who made England bow to Normandy, 
And left the name of conqueror more than king 

To his unconquerable dynasty. 
Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing. 

He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: 
The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, 
And Britain's bravest victor was the lasL 

March 8-9, 1823. 



VERSICLE3. 



I READ the " Christabel ;" 

Very well: 
I read the "Missionary;" 

Pretty— very : 
I tried at "Ilderim;" 

Ahem! 
I read a sheet of "Marg'ret of Anjouf* 

Can ynu ? 
I turn'd a page of Scott's " Waterloo;" 

Pooh! pooh 
I lojk'd at Wordsworth's milk-white " Rylstone Doe i 

Hillo! 

&c. &c. &c. 



EPIGRAM, 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES. 

If, for silver or for gold. 

You could melt ten thousand pimplea 

Into half a dozen dimples. 
Then your face we might behold, 

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly 

Yet even then 't would b«» d — d uglr 



762 



BYRON'S WORKS 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

Tto hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
Have publish'd " Anjou'g Margaret," 

Which won't be sold olf in a hurry, 
(At least, it has not been as yet;) 

Ant', then, still further to bewilder 'em. 

Without remorse you set up "Ilderim;" 
So mind you don't get into debt. 

Because as how, if you should fail, 

These books would be but baddish bail. 

And mind you do not let escape 
These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
Which would be venj treacherous— rcry, 

And get me into such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should have to sally, 
All in my little boat, against a Galley; 

And. should I chance to slay the Assyrian wigh: 

Have next to combat with the female knight. 
March 25, 1817. 



EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLI- 
DORI. 

Dear Doctor, I have read your play. 
Which is a good one in its way, — 
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
With tears, that, in a flux of grief. 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 

I like your moral and machinery; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery 
Your dialogae is apt and smart; 
The plays's concoction full of art ; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The rer> thing to hear and see: 
And for a piece of publication. 
If I decline on this occasion. 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible; 
But— and I grieve to speak it — plays 
Are drugs— mere drugs, sir— now-a-days. 
I had a heavy loss by " Manuel," — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
And Sotheby, with his " Orestes," 
^Which, by the by, the author's best is,) 
Has lain so very long on hand. 
That I despair of all demand. 
I've advertised, but see my books. 
Or only watch my shopman's looks; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

There's Bj'ron too, who once did better 
Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
a sort of— it's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama ; 
Bo aiter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
") short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
1 dare not venture on another 
f write in haste; excuse each blunder; 
The coaches fnrough the streets so thunder. 
Mjr room's so full— we've Gifford here 
Reading MS., with Hookman Frcre, 



Pronouncing on the ncHins and particle* 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

The (Quarterly— Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review ! — 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 
Short compass what— but, to resume; 
As I was saying, sir, the room — 
The room 's so full of wits and bard4, 
Crabbes. Campbells, Crokers, Freres, vaa. War4g 
And others, neither bards nor wits:— 
My humble tenement admits 
All persons in the dress of gent.. 
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 

A party dines with me to-day, 
All clever men, who make their way; 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 
They're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France' 
Thus run our time and tongues away.— 
But, to return, sir, to your play: 
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal. 
Unless 't were acted by O'Neil. 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry. 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

John Murray 



EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. 

My dear Mr. Murray, 
You're in a damn'd hurry 

To set up this ultimate Canto; 
But (if they don't rob us) 
You '11 see Mr. Hobhouse 

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 

For the Journal you hint of, 
As ready to print off. 

No doubt you do right to commend it; 
But as yet I have writ off 
The devil a bit of 

Our " Beppo :"— when copied, I'll send it 

Then you've ***'s Tour,— 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly begin with a less work; 
For the pompous rascallion, 
Wlio don't speak Italian 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work. 

You can make any loss up 
With "Spence" and his gossip, 

A work which must surely succeed; 
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
With the new " Fytte" of " Whistlecraft," 

Must make people purchase and read. 

Then you've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on. 

To serve with a Muscovite master 
And help him to polish 
A nation so owlish. 

They thought shaving their beards a iiMwrsr 



mSCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



763 



For the man, "poor and shrewd," 
With whom you 'd conclude 

A compact without more delay, 
Perhaps some such pen is 
Plill extant in Venice; 

But please, sir, to mention your pay 

Venice, January 8, 1818. 



TO MR. RfURRAY. 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs. 
My Murray. 

To thee, with hope and terror dumb. 
The unfledged MS. authors come: 
Thou printest all— and sellest some— 
My Murray. 

Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen,— 
But where is thy new Magazine, 
My Murray? 

Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine 
The works thou deemest most divine— 
The " Art of Cookery," and mine. 
My Murray. 

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist; 
And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without " the Board of Longitude," 
Although this narrow paper would. 
My Murray 1 

Venice, March 25, 1818. 



TO THOMAS MOORE 

What are you doing now. 

Oh Thomas Moore? 
What are you doing now. 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now. 
Rhyming or wooing now. 
Billing or cooing now. 

Which, Thomas Moore? 

But the Carnival's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore I 
The Carnival's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore I 
Masking and humming. 
Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming. 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 



STANZAS. 



When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home. 
Let him combat for that of his neighbours ; 

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
And get knock'd on the head for his labours. 

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan. 

And is always as nobly requited; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can. 

And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted. 



EPITAPH FOR WILLIaM PITT. 

With death doom'd to grapple 

Beneath this cold slab, he 
Who lied in the Chapel 

Now lies in the Abbey. 



ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 
Here's a happy new year! but with reason 

I beg you'll permit me to say- 
Wish me many returns of the season. 
But as few as you please of the day 



EPIGRAM. 



The world is a bundle of hay, 
Mankind are the asses who pull; 

Each tugs in a different way. 
And the greatest of all is John Bull. 



THE CHARITY BALL. 

[On hearing that Lady Byron had been Patroness of a Ball la aM of koh 

charity at Hinckley.] 

What matter the pangs of a husband and fathe; 

If his sorrows in exile be great or be small. 
So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather. 

And the saint patronizes her "charity balll" 

What matters— a heart which, though faulty, wm 
feeling. 

Be driven to excesses which once conM appal — 
That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing. 

As the saint keeps her charity back for " the ball I* 



EPIGRAM, 

ON THE BRASIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO PR»- 
SENT AN ADDRESS TO Q0EEN CAROLINE. 

The brasiers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
An address, and present it themselves all in brass;— 
A superfluous pageant— for, by the Lord Harry! 
They'll find where they are going much more tlwa 
they carry. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

For Or ford and for Waldegrave 

You give much more than me you gave\ 

Which is not fairly to behave. 

My Murray. 

Because if a live dog, 'tis said. 
Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead. 
My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes. 
Verse hath a better sale than prose- 
Oertes, I should have more than those 
My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
So, if yoii will, I shan't be shamm'd 
And if you vson't, you may be damn i 
My Murray. 



> 


7C4 BYRON'S WORKS. 

______ 


ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIA»I RIZZO 


HI. 


HOPPNER. 


Like Chiefs of Faction, 


His father's sense, his mother's grace, 


His life is action— 


In him, I hope, will always fit so; 


A formal paction 


With— still to keep him in good case— 


That curbs his reign 


The health and appetite of Rizzio. 


Obscures his glory. 




Despot no more, he 




Such territory 




Q.uits with disdain. 


STANZAS, TO A HINDOO AIR. 


Still, still advancing. 


[These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for 


With banners glancing. 


Greece. They were meant to suit the Hiadostanee air—" Alia Malla Pun- 


His power enhancing. 


ca," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.] 


He must move on— 


Oh 1— my lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow! 


Repose but cloys him. 


Where is my lover? where is my lover? 


Retreat destroys him. 


Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? 


Love brooks not a degraded tbro9«. 


Far— far away! and alone along the billow? 




Oh! my lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow! 

Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 


Wait not, fond lover 1 


How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 


Till years are over. 


And my head droops over thee like the willow.— 


And then recover. 
As from a dream. 


Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! 


While each, bewailing 


Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from oreaking. 


The other's failing. 


In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; 


With wrath and railing. 


Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.— 


All hideous seem— 


Then if thou wilt— no more my lonely Pillow, 


While first decreasing. 


In one embrace let these arms again enfold him. 


Yet not quite ceasing. 


And then expire of the joy— but to behold him ! 


Wait not till teasing 


Oh! my lone bosom 1— oh! my lonely Pillow' 


All passion blight : 




If once diminish'd. 
Love's reign is finish'd— 




STANZAS. 


Then part in friendship,— and bid good nif&k. 


[" COOLD LOVE FOR EVER."j 


v. 


1. 


So shall Affection 


CoDLD Love for ever 


To recollection 


Run like a river, 


The dear connexion 


And Time's endeavour 


Bring back with joy: 


Be tried in vain- 


You had not waited 


No other pleasure 


Till, tired or hated. 


With this could measure ; 


Your passions sated 


And like a treasure 


Began to cloy. 


We 'd hug the chain. 


Your last embraces 


But since our sighing 


Leave no cold traces— 


Ends not in dying. 


The same fond faces 


And form'd for flying. 


As through the past: 


Love plumes his wing; 


And eyes, the mirrors 


Then for this reason 


Of your sweet errors. 


Let '3 love a season ; 


Reflect but rapture— not least, though teal 


aul let that season be only Spring. 


VI. 


II. 
When lovers parted 


True, separations 


Feel broken-hearted, 


Ask more than patience; 


And, all hopes thwarted, 


What desperations 


Expect to die; 


From such have risen 1 ^ 


A few years older. 


But yet remaining. 


Ah! how much colder 


What is't but chaining 


They might behold her 


Hearts which, once waning. 


For whom they sigh! 


Beat 'gainst their prison t 


When link'd together, 


Time can but cloy love. 


In every weather. 


And use destroy love: 


They pluck Love's feather 


The winged boy. Love, 


From out his wing- 


Is but for boys— 


He 'U stay for ever. 


You'll find it torture 


Bat Badly shiver 


Though sharper, shorter. 


*Vilhout liis plumage, when past the Spring. 


To wean, and not wear out, your Joyi 


THE 


END. 



J 



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BYSIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE, KNT. 

A new, fine edition ; one volume, 18mo. 
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drigg's louttjtrn anh Wtslnn longster; 

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Great care \vas taken, in the selection, to admit no song that contained, in the slifhtest degree^ 
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ROBOTHAM'S POCKET FRENCPI DICTIONARY, 

CAREFULLY REVISED, 

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